The Assassin I: The Birth of an Ender
by Metatron Alastor
Summary: Nobody escapes his homeland thinking of becoming a living legend. That is particularly true for someone like Azrael. His past in Morrowind has been burnt, but now he rises from the ashes. Azrael, the Last Dragonborn, the Godsplitter, the Assassin. That name still is the best of blessings to some, and the worst of curses to others.
1. Prologue: The Assassin

Life can only be understood backwards, but has to be lived forwards.

Such is the rule of existence. Everything that lives, anything that breathes, is bound by this one principle. Mortals and immortals know this. Even those few who can see the future, those that can pierce the dark veil of destiny, of fortune and doom, know it. They can see, but can't understand. Not yet. Understanding is something that is acquired with time, by looking back. Looking back, however, is not living. It's the polar opposite. Understanding is not living.

Azrael had lived his life. We now need to live it again, so that in the end we can also look back and understand. Just like he did. That is why we need to start from the very end of the line, from the very moment he fulfilled the prophecy laced in his soul and bound to his blood. When he killed the World-Eater, when he returned to the ones who had helped him on his journey.

His travels had led him far and wide, through space and time, through reality and dreams alike. He had seen things others would rather not see. He had done things others would rather not do. But in the end, that did not matter. Fate had led him where he now stood, and as a part of it he had completed his task. And this is exactly what drives this tale.

Azrael, the Last Dragonborn. The Godsplitter. The Assassin. That name and those titles alike still echo with strength in the hearts of Men and Mer, and they even would in the ones of Daedra and Aedra, if only they had one. For some his name is the best of blessings, for others the worst of curses. It's spoken with caution, said with fear, uttered in terror. There is not one place where the Assassin does not have eyes and ears. Once he considers you a relevant threat, you're finished. There's no escaping that which cannot be escaped.

Few sources that describe his still exists. The ones that detail his appearance are even fewer, and yet quite accurate. Azrael is a peculiar character, those who saw his face remember it well or wrote about it in vivid details: long, thick hair that fall on the shoulders, black as raven feathers; a full beard and bushy eyebrows of the same color; eyes crimson and sparkling with the flare of the flames that gave him birth. And yes, Azrael is a Dunmer. His irises blaze with the wrath of his ancestors. A long scar comes down his left cheek, from the temple all the way down to the chin. It's mostly covered by the beard, but the darker line is still visible and distinguishable from his skin, which is of the same color of ash. Not that slightly brownish grey that most Dunmer have. His skin was truly grey. Colorless.

And what has led to this moment, you might ask. That is exactly what we are going to uncover. That is why we started here, at the end of the line. But even at that time he knew not that one day he would have looked back and understood, when he was finally free from heavy shackles. Because to understand something is to look at it from the outside. Just like we are going to do. That's the thing that need to be remembered. Always, not matter what.

Life can only be understood backwards, but has to be lived forwards.

This story end with the thunder of the Thu'um, but it starts with the squeaking of a boat.

* * *

A creak. Another creak. Then, an angry sigh of desperation.

'Helain?' someone asked. It's the voice of a Dunmer, and it's deep.

'I can't sleep. I just can't,' replied another Dark Elf.

'You could avoid preventing us from doing so, at least.'

'Keep calm, Alaeli,' said the one with the deep voice. 'We're all on the same ship. Both literally and metaphorically.'

'Very funny, Azrael.'

The Dunmer with the deep voice laughed darkly, and then stood up. The holes in the hull of the boat allowed weak rays of moonlight to come through. It was around midnight. In the dim light, the shadowy silhouette of the Dunmer was noticeably higher than the one a normal Dark Elf. Normal, since Azrael was in fact exceptionally tall. He moved three steps towards the lantern they kept with them, kneeled down and took it in his hand. A weak flame flared in his palm, and the lamp brightened up.

'What in blazes…'

'Calm now, Ernak,' said Azrael, putting the lantern in the center of the small circle the four Dark Elves formed. 'Helain can't sleep, I thought we could stay up a little bit more.'

'Fine…' he muttered.

Alaeli crawled out of the bedroll and sat next to Azrael, resting her head on his shoulder. Helain leaned against the hull of the ship, and Ernak sat in front of them, his legs crossed.

They remained silent for a while.

'What will you do once we arrive to Skyrim?' asked Helain suddenly. He was the youngest of the four Dunmer, followed by Azrael, then Alaeli and then Ernak, who was the oldest with his two centuries of life.

'Who knows…' said Alaeli.

'I guess we could try and join the Imperial Legion,' said Ernak. 'That way me might get an excuse for being in foreign land.'

'Spit on the military,' hissed Azrael. 'We'll arrive there, get placed in the front line and die after a week. Besides, speaking of weeks, it's a two or three weeks travel to get to the Legion headquarter.'

'What better choices do we have?' asked Ernak. 'The only thing that's needed in Skyrim is soldiers. They need nothing else.'

'We could introduce ourselves as sellswords. Or bounty hunters,' rejoined Helain.

'Oh, yes?' sneered Azrael. 'First, they'll leave you as a last resort and have their countrymen first. Second, you don't even know how to use a sword.'

'I know a bit of magic!' the young Elf snapped back.

'Yeah, sure, and what can you do with it? Light a candle? Perhaps. Kindle a fire? Maybe. Kill someone? Not in Oblivion.'

'Azrael…' Ernak rustled, his voice shaking with anger.

'What?' he asked, without even raising his voice. His tone was enough to render the old Elf silent. 'You know it's true. Damn it, you've seen the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis, you of all should know how misery is and how it works. We have little possibility to find a decent living condition in that frozen land. You know it, but admitting it makes you angry. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.'

'But… As mercenaries… We could try to train,' tried Helain again.

'I'll never kill,' whispered Azrael, with an undertone of deep sorrow. 'After what happened to me, I'll never kill. Let alone for money.'

Alaeli looked up at Azrael. The scar that went from his left temple to his cheek was truly impressive. The sailors had removed the bandage from that the day before, and it never ceased to amaze her how extensive it was. His full, black beard hid it somewhat, but it was far from invisible. Of all the stories that the passengers of that ship could tell, Azrael's was considered by some the worst one. Almost all of them came there trying to get away from Morrowind to look for a better life, while he was desperately escaping. Despite that, he seemed to always retain some wicked sense of humor. Sometimes his mood was agreeable enough to be called good. However, for the vast majority of the journey, he had been annihilating any good thoughts others had with his cynical and lapidary sarcasm.

'In the end, we'll decide for ourselves,' said Helain. 'I'll still try my luck as a mercenary.'

'I'll maybe try to get to the school they have for Mages, up at the North,' said Alaeli.

'I'll try to join the Legion. I don't care if I get slaughtered. Moreover, if I heard right, the Nords are up with a little uprising. They might use some more troops.'

'Azrael?'

The tall Dunmer laughed. His deep voice made it a bit intimidating.

'I just need to run.'

'And once you'll be safe? What will you do?'

'Don't know, maybe start growing crops again.'

'I don't think you'll be able. It just doesn't seem likely.'

'Good luck to you too,' he whispered, sneering sardonically.

* * *

The four friends split up at the docks of Windhelm the day after. They never saw each other again.

Helain, having heard of wolves on the main road and wanting to impress the authorities, tried to go out at night and wipe the pack. A hunter found his remains some hours later, but the pieces of gnawed flesh were impossible to recognize.

Alaeli decided to take a boat from Windhelm and go directly to Winterhold, where the College of Mages was. On the second day of travel a storm broke out and wrecked her ship, which crashed on the cliffs and sank. Nobody survived.

Ernak, convinced to join the Legion, began his march to Solitude. On the way, starving and dying of thirst, he stole some water and some pieces of bread. Captured by the guards and sent to jail, he spent his last three days of life in agony, forgotten behind the bars. He died of dehydration. Nobody remembered to give him something to drink.

Azrael, received news that a suspicious looking Dunmer armed to the teeth had been searching for him, took the few things he had and set off immediately to the West. Where to, that he did not know.


	2. The Roots of the Ender

Azrael was walking along the dusty road.

The Sun was at the zenith. It struck him hard on the neck, and yet he continued, without paying attention to the pain that cut through his legs because of the long walk.

His arrival in Windhelm was now a week past. The boat had already sailed back to Blacklight. Staying in Windhelm had been strange. He had been a nobody for all of his life, and was not surprised of how he was treated because of that. He was instead surprised of how the Nords greeted his kin in general. "Wretched grey-skin", they said to him, without a specific reason.

All Azrael wanted was to escape Morrowind, but as it turned out he had searched a hideout in the wrong place: he knew Skyrim was ravaged by an ongoing conflict, but he had no notion of its size until he got on the shores of the Northern land. He had learned about how bitter the strife had turned. Thus, he was not surprised of what he found a hundred meters ahead.

A blood bath. Dead soldiers in both imperial red and that strange blue the "rebels" wore as signature color. The men had cut each other down violently, slicing off entire parts of the enemies' bodies. They had no time to bury them, it looked like; it wasn't even clear who won that fight. An equal number of men of either faction lied slaughtered on the ground. A massacre, no other way to say that.

 _Humans…_ Azrael thought with a sting of contempt.

He did not know by that time that his fate was about to be decided, along the one of Nirn itself.

He just walked a few more meters, and than saw the very reason he escaped Morrowind.

Azrael recognized those people and knew of their history, but knew nothing solid on their current situation: Morag Tong, the assassin guild that infested the domain of the Dunmer like a plague, a horrible blight. Once the armed hand of their government, now they were only killers for hire. Or so he thought. The only thing he knew was that he had no idea of the reason those murderers were after him. His distortions of the Dunmeri religion were hardly enough. Azrael had always followed the idea that he served the Daedra, not what their priests and messengers said, but that didn't sound like a good reason to be killed.

Nevertheless, he froze on the spot, looking at the thug with both fear and disdain. He was going to die, no questions and no objections. He was facing a trained killer, who is capable only on taking lives in service of something they call "goddess", or as he knew her, Mephala.

Time slowed, it seemed to almost freeze. The killer unsheathed a long blade from his belt, gripped it with both hands, jumped and charged the strike from above his head. The brutal hit was supposed to be perfect. And deadly. Azrael felt adrenaline entering his bloodstream and rushing through his body, wiping clean his legs of the pain. Even in the face of certain death, but the body tried to preserve itself.

The Dark Elf did not know which one of supernatural powers that existed on Mundus aided him that day, but his memories are clear. He raised his hands, crossing his wrists, in an instinctive and insane attempt to block the blow. The metal of the sword would have cut his arms, but he just tried to do something.

It worked.

His crossed wrists collided with the ones of the thug. The chitin bracers struck his bare skin, scratching it. His bone cracked under the blow, and a vicious growl escaped his mouth, but he had done it: the Morag Tong was disarmed, the sword had fallen to the ground. The killer stood utterly stunned before him, failing to make out what had happened.

Azrael did not hesitate. He raised his knee and stroke the solar plexus, causing the murderer to bend. He kicked again, hitting him on the side. Then, exploiting the fact that he was higher than average for a Dark Elf, grabbed him by the neck and raised him from the ground. He looked the criminal in the eyes, and then hurled him down to the ground. The murderer couldn't get up. A few bones were broken.

Azrael picked up the murderer's sword from the ground, and gripped it as hard as his broken wrist permitted. It was the first real weapon he touched, apart from the axe he used to cut firewood at home. The blade shone as he lifted it, and he saw a last flash in the eyes of the assassin. A light of a strange and indefinable color. Nothing but fear, terror, dread and despair condensed in one instant, one last moment of capable thinking.

Azrael had never ended a life before, and that was his first kill. He had always feared the day when such a thing would have been necessary. Now, however, he sensed nothing. His mind reacted with lighting-fast speed, his body was completely under his control. A glacial shroud surrounded his mind, a freezing veil blocked every sensation. Only sense and instinct remained.

The sword touched the warm flesh of the murderer, cutting through the thin armor. The blade encountered no resistance, and Azrael saw no valid reason to stop in that moment. He pressed, and the edge of the weapon cut the head of the thug off.

Blood flowed. A lot of it.

The sword fell from Azrael's broken wrist. It thudded darkly as it touched the ground. The thug was dead, lying in the growing red pool of his own blood. Blood… A crimson shadow that obscured the dust underneath, a vermillion substance that should stay in the body, not escape it.

The Dark Elf fell on the ground, kneeling. His vision was obscured by pain, his boots soaked with the life lymph of his enemy and his mind confused with thoughts of what he had done.

 _I… killed,_ he thought. _And I… liked it,_ he also realized.

He had like it, oddly enough. Now that the icy calm that dictated his every movement had left him, he sensed the blood rushing quickly through his veins. He sensed a cruel smile appearing on his lips. Even with the broken bones and the fatigue of both the walk and the fight, he felt more alive than ever.

He looked around, and there was only death, only blood. One moment ago he criticized Humans for murdering their own brothers, but what had he done now? Sure, fine, he was not the one attacking, but was it that different? As strange as it may sound, he felt guilty for what he thought, rather than what he had done. Coldly eliminating a menace is not the same as rejoicing of its death, no matter the circumstances. He looked around to the imperials and the rebels, and he saw corpses that in life may not have been different from him or the assassin he had just slain.

 _Am I different from the one that did this_? _Am I no different from these fratricides?_ he found himself wondering. The answer he would like to give was yes, but was that a viable option?

No, it didn't look like it.

The mere fact that he was feeling all those things at the same time was hardly surprising. All born assassins have to surpass their initial feelings and fear in order to become the ultimate killing machines they are in some way destined to become. If you don't surpass this test two things might happen: you either go mad in a peaceful way, meaning you lose your sanity, or you go mad the violent way and become a compulsive slaughterer, driven only by blood-thirst and an inextinguishable rage, both born out of fear.

None of those ways was the one Azrael would have chosen to follow. He would have chosen the path of knowledge and wisdom. In order to become a true assassin, a slayer of men, and ender of lives, the embodiment of dread, the hand of Fate itself, these first phases have to be overcome.

Death is only the supreme judgment. In turn, the assassin is the only person who can unleash that justice without becoming mad; that's how Nirn worked, and maybe like all worlds work.

It was in that very moment, when he was still looking at his blood-stained hands, that a strange and unnatural laugh came out of his throat. Glacial, dark, and very sinister. His first step had been done. There was no coming back, he could have never forgotten that.

The point of no return. Quite literally.

'Hey, you! Stop right there!'

Azrael was so concentrated on the storm that was going on in his mind that just didn't see nor hear the convoy that was driving towards him. Two carriages, pulled by typical Skyrim horses and guided by imperials soldier.

'You! What have you done?' cried one of the soldier. 'Stay were you are! Don't try anything!'

The carriages halted, and three soldiers jumped down and headed towards Azrael, sword in hand.

'What have you done?' repeated the soldier that came first, grabbing the Dunmer by the neck. 'You killed them all?'

His first instinct was to thrust the sword into the chest of that pathetic soldier, who was loyal as long as the pay was good enough. Azrael abandoned that idea in split second, trembling at the only thought of what he had become: a murderer.

'What in Oblivion is wrong with you?' yelled the soldier, shaking the Dark Elf. 'Talk!'

'Nothing…' he muttered. 'I just… I had to defend myself.'

The slap was so strong Azrael fell to the ground, and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

'What game are you playing at?' the imperial roared. 'You walk here, kill a bunch of people and you think that's all right? How do things work in Morrowind? You reward slayers?'

Azrael calmed himself, breathed deeply and then stood up. Considering he was a Dunmer, it was pretty incredible that he surpassed a Nord soldier in height.

'Listen,' he said, glacial, 'I found the corpses here when I came, and suddenly that Morag Tong assassin ambushed me. Don't ask me how, but I killed him. End of the story.'

The imperial burst into laughter; Azrael remained silent, waiting for him to return normal.

'That's the truth,' he said after some time. 'They are only killers, very skilled ones at that, but criminals. I did nothing wrong getting rid of him.'

The soldier was still grinning in a mocking way, and then raised and eyebrow. He waved a hand toward his comrades and they returned to the wagon. The Dunmer thought he might have been safe, but he was not. Not yet anyway.

'Have ever been to Solstheim?' asked the imperial soldier.

'No, actually,' answered the Elf, coldly. 'I hope to go there sometime in the future, but I don't think that's your concern.'

'It's not,' confirmed the soldier. 'Well, in this case, let me tell you a story: I was on Solstheim once, on account of the East Empire Trading Company. One day one of our lads went out of his mind, killed two people, almost cut down another and some say he even raped a Dunmer. Two weeks later the Morag Tong appeared. They butchered him, quite literally, and then vanished. I can assure you: no one can defat a Morag Tong single handed. Conclusion? You are lying to me.'

'I am not,' replied Azrael, patiently. 'As I said, I have no idea of how I could disarm him and kill him. It just… happened. I have no part in all this.'

'Then why were you holding a sword?' said the soldier.

The Dunmer hesitated, but after heaving a deep sigh he spoke, telling the truth.

'I never used such a thing in my life. I don't even know how to handle one. I punched him, and then finished him off with the blade. I never intended to do that.'

'Enough!' cried the soldier. Now he was seriously angry. 'I saw you use that blade! You killed a defenseless men in cold blood! You swung that sword with a mastery that is just not normal for a man that never wielded a weapon! You are lying! You too are a trained killer, or worse!' Azrael felt that charge half as a compliment and half as a further reinforce to the theory that he had become a murderer. A trained soldier, who knew what skill was, said that he, Azrael, a nobody, was very good with the sword. 'You killed a Morag Tong!' the imperial continued. 'You slew one of the best duelist you could find within the borders of Tamriel, you did that with extreme skill, and now you say that you never used a sword? You either lost your memory, or you are lying; and I think it's the second one.'

Azrael was now a bit irritated; he drew closer to the soldier.

'How many times do I have to tell you I never used a blade?'

'They'll never be enough,' said the soldier, threatening.

'Listen, I've had enough of this,' The Dark Elf replied, still cold as ice. 'Let's just all continue on our own road. You have a convoy to protect, maybe even some prisoners of this "rebellion" of yours. In the meantime, I need to get as far away from Morrowind as I can. Deal?'

The soldier thought twice, but in the end he decided not to risk: he punched Azrael as quick as he could, but it was not enough. The reflexes of the Dunmer guided him and made him raise his hands in time, but when the steel gauntlets of the soldier came in contact with his already broken wrists he hissed and stumbled. The soldier kneeled and hit with the elbow the nape of his neck.

Azrael felt the world shimmering, losing colors and than vanishing. His eyes closed completely.

The soldier carefully stood up, without losing sight of the Elf for too long. He felt he was dangerous, and he saw him moving! That Dunmer… he was like nothing he had ever seen, not even the Morag Tong he told him about were so precise with a sword and had such fast reflexes without extensive training.

A worried face came out of one of the carriages. Another soldier.

'Problems, Quaestor?' he asked.

'Yes. Just one,' said the soldier, actually a sergeant. 'Help me bring this Elf on the cart.'

The soldier jumped down, bonded the hands of the Dunmer with ropes and then helped the Quaestor to put him on the second carriage.

'Got a present for you, Ulfric!' laughed the sergeant. 'Look, you are in such good company! A skilled murder, one of your comrades and a horse-thief. You're lucky, man!'

'You'll regret those words once the Empire falls,' muttered a blonde, imprisoned rebel in front of Azrael.

'And you'll regret these once your head falls off the chopping block,' spit the Quaestor.

The man called Ulfric snarled, but nothing more. His mouth was wrapped with a dirty cloth gag.

The sergeant got on the first carriage.

'Let's go, it's better we don't dawdle here. It's not safe,' he said.

The drivers pulled the reins, and the horses continued on the road with a short neigh.

'Quaestor, excuse me,' said the soldier behind him. 'What are we going to do with this one?'

His commander turned, frowning his forehead. 'Once at Helgen he'll get killed, like all the rest of the prisoners,' he simply decided.

'Do I need to add him to the list?' asked the soldier.

The Quaestor sighed deeply, but then he shook his head.

'No reason to do that. Tullius will be so exited about killing Ulfric everyone else will be executed, without any exceptions. They'll kill him anyway.'

'As you wish,' said the soldier, and sat back beside the carriage driver.

The Quaestor was tormented by the sight of that… Dunmer in rags, killing with apparent ease one the most dangerous persons he could have ever encountered. A Morag Tong… Divines' Grace, they were shadows that strike with the strength of a two men, and move as silently as a fox. And still a Dark Elf, with no weapons and at his say no combat expertise whatsoever, knocked him out with just his bare fists and then finished him off with the most perfect strike he had ever seen.

There was something really wrong with that Elf.

Meanwhile, Azrael was still out. The blond rebel and the other man, the one called Ulfric, watched the Dunmer silently. They noticed at once the blood-soaked boots, the strong biceps, large shoulders and exceptional height, given he was a Dark Elf. They crossed eyes, and then turned away.

Why bother with that strangely mysterious individual? They were going to die anyway.

Or so it was planned.


	3. The Captive

'Azrael.'

The Dunmer looked straight in the eyes of the soldier, who stared back at him suspiciously. He was a Nord, brown hair, rough face… a typical person who could have lived anywhere in the borders of Skyrim. He raised an eyebrow.

'Another refugee?' he asked. 'Gods really have abandoned your people, Dark Elf.'

 _Not all of them are followed and hunted by murderers…_ Azrael said to himself.

The little town was silent. There was something in the air which was freezing time for everybody outside of them, the prisoners. Nobody spoke, kept working or did anything other than watching the convoy. The clangs of a hammer that the Elf had heard entering the city had stopped, and now a small crowd was gathering around them. Azrael, however, was mostly ignored; the main focus of the attention was the man that the blonde rebel called "Ulfric Stomcloak", and that Lokir called the leader of the rebellion.

Azrael casted a quick glance around him, but nothing interesting happened. His feelings were slowly fading, and he couldn't say exactly why. Meanwhile, the Nord turned and asked to the woman beside him: 'Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list.'

'Forget the list,' she said. 'He goes to the block.'

'By your orders, Captain,' responded the soldier, and then turned his attention back to Azrael. 'I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Morrowind.'

 _Outrageous… That's a real relief,_ thought the Dunmer, slowly shaking his head. _Better than nothing, I guess. No Morag Tong will hunt down my ashes._

'Follow the Captain, prisoner,' concluded the Nord soldier.

The woman walked away and Azrael followed, head up.

 _Maybe it would have been better to die to that assassin. At least I would have perished at the hand of my kin, and without remorse tormenting me. Well, why should I worry now? It all ends here. I hope._

Azrael stopped beside the blonde rebel that was on the cart with him; all the prisoners were positioned in a kind of circle. The Elf recognized some faces from the ride to the city, but did not know their names. The only thing they had in common was the cruel fate they all shared. The executioner, on the other side, stood beside the chopping block without saying a thing, leaning on the long axe. Azrael looked up, towards the watchtower that overlooked the courtyard, and saw there were guards up there as well.

 _Is there a single inch of this place that isn't filled with soldiers?_

'Ulfric Stormcloack.'

The Dunmer turned his attention to the man that just spoke. Both his voice and his face revealed clearly that he was an imperial. He wore a particular armor, one that Azrael saw one time only carried by and imperial general. He already saw that man, seconds ago. "General Tullius", the sergeant had called him. The same sergeant that had knocked Azrael out. The Dunmer had seen that Tullius moments before, speaking to some Altmer.

'Some here in Helgen call you a hero,' the general continued, 'but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.'

 _Voice…?_ Azrael asked himself, but quickly dismissed the matter. _Typical human nonsense._

The man called Ulfric only mumbled, since the cloth gag didn't allow him to talk.

'You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!'

Those last words were almost covered by a thundering sound.

The heads of both the prisoners and the soldiers turned to the sky, because it was from there that the sound had come, and where the powerful echo was still resounding. The weather was beautiful that day, the Sun was shining brightly and there was nothing in that cloudless sky that could have caused that noise.

The Elf immediately brought his gaze back to the circle of people. He sensed tension in the air, so strong you could cut it with a knife. Some rebels were even trying to free themselves from the rope that bound their wrists, and others kept glancing at the sky. Azrael didn't bother with either of those things. His broken wrists hurt way too much to even try to free them from the strong knot, and he couldn't care much about something roaring in the sky when he was in front of the chopping block.

'What was that?' asked the Nord that had called them out. General Tullius had other things on his mind.

'It's nothing,' he replied. 'Carry on.'

'Yes, General Tullius,' said the Captain, and then turned to the priestess behind her. 'Give them there last rites.'

The priestess was another Nord, dressed in a long yellow tunic. The Dunmer had seen that before, and remembered that it was mostly used by the priests of Arkay, the God of Life and Death. Fitting as well. The priestess started talking about Aetherius and blessings.

 _Yet more human garbage… Strange thing that no one seemed to notice that noise sounded awfully like a roar._

'…Blessings of the eight Divines upon you…' continued the priestess.

The Elf was about to say something, and something not so pleasing, but a brave red-haired rebel did the job for him.

'For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!' he scowled, walking fast and on his own toward the block.

The priestess stopped at once. 'As you wish…' she conceded.

That change in the protocol seemed to have confused everybody. The Captain and the executioner did not move, and the rebel stood there waiting for what felt like an eternity. At last, when he too could bare it no longer, he yelled: 'Come on! I haven't got all morning.'

At his complaint, the Captain moved on and crossed eyes with the executioner. Both nodded, and the woman made the rebel kneel and then pushed him on the block. Azrael felt a cold shiver down his spine, but could not tell why. He stood and watched, slightly disappointed that the rebel was facing the opposite direction. He wanted to look in his eyes, not that the axe was already raising. Just as the blade shined in the sky, he mocked his enemies one last time.

'My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?'

And then his head fell off the chopping block.

Time seemed to stop for a single moment, the moment in which the head of the soldier got cut away from the neck.

 _Wait… Damn it, I've already seen this, haven't I? Days ago, except I was the one cutting a head away from its body,_ he thought. The thought was serious, but gave the present situation a pathetic look. _Funny… I though that by killing back there I had become equal to humans, but no. It's the opposite, it's them that are equal to me. Death is everywhere, even alongside me._

Another step towards becoming an assassin had been made.

The "some who called Ulfric a hero" cried in disdain when blood started flowing on the ground.

'You imperial bastards!' someone cried, but two other on the opposite side immediately responded.

'Justice!'

'Death to the Stormcloaks!'

The blonde soldier who had travelled with Azrael sighed, and the Dunmer gave him a short gaze.

'As fearless in death, as he was in life…' he said.

'Next, the Dark Elf!' ordered the Captain, pointing at Azrael.

Azrael could not move one millimeter before the thundering sound echoed again in the sky.

'There it is again, did you hear that?' asked the same soldier that did before. He was nervous.

The Captain looked at him with an annoyed glare. 'I said "next prisoner"!' she replied, speaking slowly and marking every word.

The soldier turned to Azrael. 'To the block prisoner, nice and easy.'

 _So… my time come,_ the Dunmer thought. He was strangely… calm, perfectly calm. He couldn't say where that came from.

The Elf moved his first steps towards the chopping block. His every movement was tranquil, and glacially calculated. Strange, isn't it? His bare feet touched the pool of blood of the dead rebel as he approached, but his face did not show one sign of tension or disgust. He slowly alined with the block, and kneeled down. If not for the Captain pushing him on the block, he probably would have done it himself. He had no fear, or at least it looked that way. He felt distant from the world.

 _This is it…_

Or should have.

Another sound came, the third one, but this time it was clearer, and it did not echo in any way. It was definitely a roar, Azrael had heard right. It was deep, vicious, nothing like anyone there had ever heard in their lives. The Dunmer saw it raising in the sky; and no, we're not talking about the executioner's axe, which was also raising in the sky. The thing that was approaching was so big that he never had never seen bigger things in his entire life.

Some had seen the thing already when it appeared beside the mountain, and they all looked terrified. For a moment, Azrael had hoped that it was a normal creature that lived in those places, but from the look on the soldier's faces it definitely wasn't.

'What in Oblivion is that?' cried General Tullius, stepping back instinctively.

The titanic creature was coming closer and closer, beating its strong wings. Azrael saw it sideways, but he could most certainly say that the body had the vague shape a serpent, or maybe a lizard, but instead of the two anterior pods there were two membranous wings, dark as night.

'Sentries, what do you see?' asked the Captain.

'It's in the clouds!' one cried from the distance.

 _It's not in the clouds, damn you, it's right upon us!_ Azrael would have liked to cry.

Sadly, he was right. The enormous beast stopped pounding its wings and landed heavily on the stone tower; under its weight the columns that reinforced the building cracked and got smashed, as dust and splinters flew everywhere. The whole building trembled, standing kind of straight for miracle. The strong quake that ran through the earth shoved some people to the ground, including the executioner. His axe fell beside him.

'Dragon!' the imperial commander yelled.

The monster moved its head, and started right into Azrael's eyes.

Now the Dark Elf saw it clearly: the beast had a black head with a large mouth, a spiked nose and crest and two long horns, very dark and very intimidating. Its scales were black, dark as the deepest abyss, and looked very resistant. From the side of the watchtower emerged his posterior pods, which ended in sharp and immense talos that scratched the stone block as if they were clay. Of all things, though, his gaze was the most terrifying things: that beastly stare emitted an intense, mysterious golden light. A union of hunger, unimaginable wisdom and knowledge: eyes that had seen all eternity.

The Dragon shifted his gaze, and half-opened its mouth. Its fangs were sharp as razors and big as swords. After a moment, the beast arched its long neck and roared with unimaginable strength. A thundering sound came out of his throat, a sound so loud it cracked the skies. Quite literally.

Azrael watched, without the strength nor the willpower to move.

The sky fractured. Dark clouds gathered near the crack, circling around the black abyss that appeared. From that eye of the storm fire began to rain. He had been told stories of the Red Mountain erupting, but that was different thing. A different thing altogether. Burning rocks fell from the heavens. Black clouds eclipsed the Sun, the light of which was partly substituted by the blaze of the meteors. The first few explosions echoed through the valley.

Azrael looked at the Dragon again, just in time to see it arching his back again. And roaring again. The Elf expected something equally unnatural to happen, maybe ice and blood to start raining down on them as well, but that was different: an overpowering gust emerged from the beast's jaws, which blew all the soldiers, Azrael, the rebels and the chopping block a fair distance away.

'Guards, get the town people to safety!' cried General Tullius, his voice almost covered by the thundering burst of a meteors.

Various yells came from all over the place, from desperate screamed of people stuck in the fire or officers trying to maintain order within the troops. The Elf saw blurred images of fires and vague shapes moving around in various directions. He ignored the pain of the broken wrists and stood up; he still saw barely anything, but thankfully he heard the voice of the blonde rebel of the right and followed it.

'Hey, Dark Elf, get up!' he cried. 'Come on! The gods won't give us another chance! This way!'

Azrael run in his direction, covering his eyes from the ash that was blown around by the wind. A flaming rock fell five or six on meters away from him, but being born from the fire on Red Mountain he felt the scorching gust as something not deadly. His skin absorbed the vast majority of the heat. The Nord seized his arm and pulled him under a roof. Now Azrael saw more clearly, and realized they were in a stone tower, not much different from the one the Dragon smashed when it landed.

'Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?' asked the blonde rebel. 'Could the legends be true?'

The man called Ulfric was standing near the wall, looking back. 'Legends don't burn down villages,' he said.

There were three other soldiers, two heavily wounded and the last one watching after them. Azrael still had his hands tied, and he struggled to keep his balance when the terrain trembled strongly once more. He was maybe a born swordsman, but he was not as resilient as he would have liked. Powerful quakes continued to shake the ground for a couple of seconds, and more than one person looked up hoping the tower wouldn't collapse on them.

'We need to move, now!' cried Ulfric.

The blonde rebel looked at the stairs, just as a new tremor ran through the ground. 'Up though the tower, let's go!' he said to Azrael, who was trying to get rid of the rope binding his hands, but in all that chaos and with the wrists broken and aching he couldn't do it.

The Dunmer ran up the stairs, towards two soldiers that were crouching on the side of a window. The stairs ahead of them collapsed, and they were blocked completely. Not that it mattered, their life was about to end anyway. With a sudden crash and a great deal of strength, the head of the dragon burst trough the stone, demolishing it as it was sand. Azrael saw it arching his neck again, and hid behind the wall. Just in time. A loud roar came out of the monster's mouth, and with it a flood of fire. Azrael watched astonished as even the pieces of rock seemed to start melting.

When the river of flames stopped, the beast just rose in the sky with a potent beat of its enormous black wings.

Where the Dragon had poked its head, now there was a large hole in the wall. Azrael reached it alongside the blonde rebel that came with him. From there, a little higher that the roofs of the houses, you could see the destruction.

 _The place supposed to be my tomb… Transformed in an immense, flaming grave._

The wooden buildings where burning at stunning speed, some set ablaze by the flaming meteors and some others by other structures already on fire. Entire homes were already reduced to embers, some were still burning. The smoke raised in the sky, absorbing more and more light. The thundering roars of the Dragon cracked the sky every few seconds, and when they did its black shape came down to wreak more destruction and more death.

Havoc reigned.

'See the inn on the other side?' asked the rebel. Azrael nodded. 'Jump thought the roof and keep going.'

The Dunmer took a deep breath and jumped down; the moment his feet touched the cracking wooden he prayed Azura, hoping it wouldn't collapse under his weight. It didn't; he was fine, for now. A huge flaming ball cracked just outside of the structure, shaking it violently, but without erasing it.

'Go!' cried the rebel. 'We'll follow when we can!'

Azrael didn't look back, he just run. Heat waves constantly hit him, but he didn't feel pain, only a slight annoyance. Maybe his Dunmer blood saved him that day. When the upper floor ended in a flame wall, he jumped down on the bare ground. A strong gust of flames and smoke made him cough, stumble and fall, but he quickly picked himself up and kept running. He heard a voice, a familiar one.

'Haming, you need to get over here, now!' someone cried.

Azrael remembered that voice. The soldier that had asked his name. The Dunmer now saw him, sword drawn, waiting for a kid to reach him.

The Dragon was landing right behind them. The ground quaked as the monster touched the terrain, and the burning house next to him collapsed completely into a fiery cascade. The kid managed to get behind it, where the beast could not see him.

'That a boy, we're doing great!' said the soldier, but then suddenly called: 'Torald!'

Another roar, and again a fire flood erupted from the Dragon's mouth. The heat was unbearable, even for the Dunmer. After a short moment all there was in the area purified by the fire had become ember and cinder. Torald, whoever he was, had become a pile of ashes.

'Gods…' gasped the soldier. 'Everyone get back!'

Azrael got next to him, under the only remotely useful cover of a wooden wall, all that remained of a normal house in which a normal family lived.

'Still alive prisoner?' asked the soldier, noticing him. 'Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.' He turned his attentions to an old man that stood behind him. 'Gunnar, take care of the boy, I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!'

The elder nodded: 'Gods guide you, Hadvar.'

The soldier waved a hand at Azrael, which followed him along the burning street and along a stone wall. His legs hurt badly, but he kept running. He felt a lot like the day before, filled with adrenaline but also with that strange icy veil controlling his every movement. After a brief moment a sinister hiss came from above them, and he was ready.

'Stay close to the wall!' the soldier, Hadvar, cried.

It always came down to short fractions of seconds, but Azrael's reflexes didn't betray him. He leaned against the wall barely quickly enough to avoid the titanic claw that grasped the stone. The Dragon was right above them, breathing fire and unleashing even more destruction and more suffering. Once again a raging firestorm came out of his mouth in a thundering sound, and then he just rose into the air. Hadvar waited a bit longer, and than continued on his path.

'Quickly!' he cried. 'Follow me!'

Azrael was amazed by the scratch that that talon had left on the stone.

They emerged in one of the main crossroads of the town: a big, open area in which dozen of fighters were united, throwing everything they had at the beast. Arrows hissed through the air, firebolts flew towards the sky leaving behind trails of smoke, some were even tossing rocks at the monster. All efforts only made the beast angrier and angrier. It roared with all his might, while meteors still rained from the sky and fire still consumed everything that could be burned. Everything was on fire. Every house, every building, every tower even, was on fire. Azrael noticed that the watchtower where he left the rebel had collapsed from the inside and was only gravel and dust.

'It's still coming!' cried an archer.

'What does it take to kill this monster?' yelled another one, out of frustration.

The arrow of the archer even hit the monster, which barely seemed to notice it. Just to balance things out, he scraped the ground and ripped two soldiers to shreds.

Azrael looked down at a bleeding man, mumbling his last words to the soldier beside him. 'Tell my family I fought bravely…'

 _He'll be able only if he survives, which isn't likely._

In all the chaos Azrael heard the voice of Tullius, barking orders to the men.

'Into the keep, soldiers, we're leaving!' he was yelling, and the Elf saw him telling something to Hadvar, which he didn't understand.

'It's you and me, prisoner, stay close!' Hadvar told him.

Azrael kept up with the soldier, running as close to him as he could. They ran from the crossroad to a large square, and Hadvar pointed a building on the right side; but then he suddenly stopped.

'Ralof!' he spit. 'You damned traitor! Out of my way!'

It was the blonde rebel that was on the carriage with Azrael that stood before them. He had survived.

'We're escaping Hadvar! You're not stopping us this time!' he responded, pulling the axe from his belt.

Hadvar scoffed: 'Fine, I hope that Dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!'

Meanwhile the beast landed behind them, grabbing a soldier with his claws and tearing his flesh to bits. His screams could be heard even as the Dragon roared again, breathing a storm of fire down on the ground and turning the two Legionnaires into living torches.

Ralof waved a hand at Azrael: 'You, come on, into the keep!'

Hadvar didn't hear him, and almost simultaneously cried: 'With me, prisoner, let's go!'

 _Great… They give me a choice._

Azrael watched first Hadvar and then Ralof; he took a deep breath.

 _Azura, Mephala, Boethiah… If I choose wrong, have pity on me._

He run towards Hadvar, who stood beside a door. He entered, and Azrael was about to follow him, but before entering the keep he looked back.

The Dragon was flying higher now, looking down to the conflagration it had created. It would not have stopped before that little town was completely annihilated, Azrael could see that in the reflection of his eyes, full of incomprehensible wisdom and inhuman knowledge. That was the cruel reality. Everyone in that place would have died, sooner or later, because that monster didn't think like a mortal, Man or Mer; compassion was not something that existed in his mind, or so it seemed. Every characteristic is a weakness when viewed in a particular way. That could have been of use to the Dunmer, but not there. And definitely not at that time.

He was about to go though the door, but stopped for the second time upon seeing something. Actually, someone.

The Quaestor, the imperial sergeant that captured him and knocked him down. He was dead, lying in a pool of blood, flesh burned and legs completely evaporated. The man that three days before captured him out of caution, now died a dreadful death and shared the same fate as all in that hellish place.

 _Maybe this is not the end. Perhaps this is a new beginning. The old me has just died, a new one has just been given. What will he become… It's my choice to make._

He entered the keep, and shut the door with a shove of shoulders.

Silence fell, heavy and most welcome. Both the new and the old Azrael liked silence.

'Looks like we're the only ones who made it,' said Hadvar, breathing heavily. 'Was that really a Dragon, the bringers of the end times?'

Azrael shook his head. He sincerely had no idea of what had happened out there.

'We should keep moving. Come here, let me see in I can get those bindings off,' said Hadvar.

Azrael gave him his hands, and Hadvar cut the rope with a dagger he pulled from his belt. It was a real relief.

'There you go. Take a look around, there should be plenty of gears to choose from.'

The Dunmer looked at his hand, and felt the pain of the broken wrists.

'First…' he whispered.

A weak light crackled in his hand, and a warm stream of energies flew through his body, uniting the broken bones. The pain disappeared after a little while.


	4. Steel Dripping Red

'That's close enough,' growled the Nord.

Azrael stood still, without saying a word. He just drew his sword. The bandit growled again, raising his axe.

'Never should have come here,' he taunted, lounging at him.

The Dunmer didn't do anything to stop him, for the time being. He was waiting for him to get a little bit closer, so that the outlaw wouldn't have been able to react quickly enough after the attack. The hilt of the sword in his palm was almost a welcome sensation by that time, and considering he had been constantly holding it for the hour or so it took them to escape it was understandable. He still did not feel confident to attack first. A bandit dashing at you, however, does not require to strike first.

The outlaw lowered the axe. In his mind, it should have cracked the Elf's shoulder, but Azrael dodged to the right just in time. The man stumbled, almost falling, and took way too long to stand up firmly again. The Dark Elf caught the opportunity as soon as he could, thrusting his sword in the back of the man with both hands. The metal squeaked while piercing the iron back-plate.

The bandit tried to sway and free himself, which was the wrong thing to do. Not that he could do much else, to be honest. The wound widened, the edges of the blade tore the flesh everywhere they could, drops of blood started falling on the ground. Azrael slowly pulled off the sword, and corpse fell down shortly after. The Elf shook his head, surprised by how natural taking lives had become in those few days. He could not follow perfectly the thread of thoughts that led him there, but understood that killing is only another way to interact with the never-ending cycle of life.

Creation, existance, and obliteration.

Another step to become an Assassin.

That reasoning was the thing that made him go to the place where he now stood.

'What's beyond that entrance?' he had asked Hadvar a few minutes ago.

'Embershard Mine,' had been the Legionarie's answer. 'Used to be a quite profitable activity, but now it has been overrun by criminals.'

The more he thought about it, the more he felt like being a child again, with both its positive and negative traits. He regained the ability to learn incredibly quickly, to absorb information from his surroundings without much effort. On the other hand he was now tormented by an insatiable curiosity. That precise feeling led him there.

The other thing Hadvar advised was to look for anything the bandits carried. 'They usually have some interesting trinkets on them. They won't be of any use to them dead,' he had told the Elf. Following the advise, maybe a cynical one, he searched the corpse of the outlaw, checking his pockets and the small satchel attached to him belt, which was completely empty. Had he been a bit more experienced, he would have also looked at his iron cuirass, which often have useful pieces of material that can come in handy eventually. He did not, this time at least. He just looked up at the entrance.

The Dunmer took a deep breath, and opened the wooden doors that led into the mine, into the darkness.

The first thing he did was study the environment. A wise choice too; it usually gives the upper hand in a lot situations. The tunnel was quite narrow, the ceiling was pretty low and held up by wooden props. Some torches were fixed on those, but the passage was very dark nonetheless. Not a huge problem for the Elf. He liked the dark.

The fifth step to become an Assassin.

The Dunmer walked ahead, looking at those lights and wishing to be like them, eventually. Something that brings light where there is not.

He couldn't see the missing links in his reasoning back then. A torch illuminates, true, but once it leaves utter darkness comes back immediately. He didn't yet know, he would have never imagined, that the fire that gave him birth would have become his most feared enemy, and that he never would have brought light. An Assassin doesn't bring light, but extinguishes it wherever he finds it. In that darkest darkness, the Assassin gives his victims a chance. They may find the courage to lit their own torch, may that be hope, faith or even the basic but almighty loyalty, or be killed and erased from memory.

The Elf had no notion of what the future would have brought him. We don't even know if he could have stood the knowledge of what the future kept for him. The only way lo live his adventure in a remotely bearable way was to experience the here and now. And in that place at that time he was lucky he looked at his feet, and saw something barely illumined by the weak torchlight.

The Dunmer stopped suddenly, almost stmbling on the small rope, stretched between two wooden stakes.

 _A tripwire…_ he realized.

He carefully lowered the sword and cut the wire. Seconds later he would have thanked Azura for having that idea: a pile of rocks fell from the ceiling, held by a wooden bar that fell on the ground, pulled away by a stringed connected to the stretched rope.

When the noise quieted down, Azrael raised his head.

 _I just hope they didn't hear that…_

No noises came for a while. Maybe, just maybe, nobody heard that. If the cave was even inhabited, as it should have been, then no one moved or came to check. The Elf pushed forward, leaning against the wall and advancing carefully. The tunnel suddenly widened, and the ceiling raised significantly. Azrael moved closer and realized he had reached a small underground hall. There was a crack in the ceiling, through which a ray of sunlight broke through, but the light was still mostly coming from torches, and small bonfire on the lower level. That place was, in fact, a small subterranean lake, and the miners that came before the bandits build a set of wooden bridges to get from one side to the other. On its shore stood two men, who were talking. Azrael had the decency not to interrupt them for the meantime.

'Aren't you worried someone will wonder in here?' asked one bandit. 'The entrance isn't exactly hidden, you know.'

'This again?' snarled the other one. 'I told you, we have someone standing guard out there, and don't forget the rock trap we rigged up.'

 _You're deaf then… Sorry to disturb you, but I've got someone to see after I take care of you._

Azrael walked on the bridge, and a wooden bar creaked under his boot. The bandits turned simultaneously, spotting the Dunmer and looking in his direction with fear and surprise at the same time.

'By Ysmir! You won't live here alive!' screamed one of the two.

They drew their weapons and ran up the stairs.

Azrael narrowed his eyes, and stood firm. A glacial shroud veiled his mind, preventing any rash moves and letting his instinct act on the elaborate schemes that had taken shape in his mind. His thoughts accelerated, focusing on nothing but the incoming skirmish, calculating directions, possible means of escape and counter-attacks. He gained complete control over all of his movements. He observed, learning all he could from every moment. He gripped the sword tighter, but did not yet raise it.

One of the two bandits charged forward, head down, probably hoping to catch his opponent and end the fight with one swing. He couldn't. Azrael backed off, raising the sword and putting all his strength into the downward cut. The bandit lowered his blade and missed by a hair, while the strike of the Elf descended with devastating force and sliced the shoulder of the man right off.

The second evaluated the situation better, and circled around for a moment. That played against him, because it gave the Dunmer time to recover and prepare his next hit. When the outlaw swung, the Elf parried the strike and than hit the collarbone of his enemy with the pommel of the sword. The bandit got only slightly staggered, but it was just enough. The Dunmer grabbed him by the neck, turned him around and then viciously thrust the sword into his chest. One, two times. The weak screams of the criminal died with him, as his body fell on the ground. It shifted strangely in its last spasms. Blood flew out of his chest and dripped into the lake through the fissures in the bridge.

Silence fell again, and again Azrael liked it. He bent, searching the bandits' corpses for useful things. He found a small coin pouch hanging the belt of first bandit and a couple of solid pieces of raw iron in a bag on the armor of the second one.

The Dark Elf got down the stairs, looking around himself and wondering what would might have been useful and what might not ha been. He opened his pocket and put inside the red mushrooms he found, that were growing on the rock; he also took other two iron ore he found laying on the ground, and then finally got up the wooden stairs again.

He explored the area, but the other foot-bridge was not accessible: it was fixed on the ceiling with strong ropes, connected to something by a small wire. The focused, yet not quite experienced, eye of the Dark Elf followed the wire, that led to an opening in the rock. He entered the a small passage he didn't yet investigated. For the first meters all he found was some more torches, a skeleton with a pouch full of gold near him, but nothing too exiting. When he continued he finally arrived in the area the wire ended. He saw a lever, and without thinking twice he pulled it.

It worked.

The foot-bridge fell, heavily but steadily. Azrael heard footsteps on the other side of the bridge.

'I thought we had a guard posted outside,' a voice said.

The Dunmer treaded lightly, hoping they didn't hear him, but unfortunately they did.

'There!' one cried.

The Dark Elf looked at the two adversaries, and pondered the situations. One of them wielded a big warhammer, and the other one held a bow in his hands. He didn't really know how to deal with those weapons, but after defeating a Morag Tong with his bare fists nothing seemed impossible. He ran back though the passage, hoping to get to the bandits' corpses before the other two: he had a plan.

He emerged from the passage, crouched and grabbed one of the swords that lied beside the corpses, wielding one blade in both hands. For the practice he had he could have sliced his own arm off before doing anything else, but he trusted his instinctive weapon handling. He focused on both his adversaries, and kept both of them in sight.

The archer pulled the string of the bow and sought a clear shot, which Azrael didn't want him to have. The Dunmer dodged left and right, avoiding the swings of the warhammer, and eventually got on the offensive: He struck with one of the two swords. The man holding the hammer parried with the shaft but could not stop the second blow, which was the devastating one. Azrael's right hand sword thrust deeply into the enemy's chest, killing him on the spot.

The archer released the arrow, but the Dunmer quickly ducked behind the carcass of the bandit. The arrow pierced the flesh on the corpse, but was not able to hurt the Dark Elf, who came out of cover swift and strong. He dashed off toward his enemy raising both swords in the air and storming his adversary with swings, hacking and slashing with both blades.

The bandit fell, his unarmored torso transfigured by six, lethal slashes. Crimson blood dripped abundantly out of the wounds.

With a quick look to the bodies he immediately saw the gold pouches hanging from the belts, and in one of them there was even a small gem, of a color very similar to clay.

The tunnel now turned narrow again, but he could see an illuminated area just a few meters ahead, where the passageway turned to the right. He noticed a woman standing near the turn, looking around. She probably heard her two companions scream.

'Hello? Who's there?' yelled the woman.

'Right here…' murmured the Elf.

'You! You won't live to see tomorrow!'

She lounged at him, as all the others had done. She too ended up in a similar way: her blow bounced off Azrael's parry, making her stumble, and the Elf quickly proceeded to swing diagonally. A long red line that went from the waist to the neck appeared, as the woman started to lose her balance.

Azrael kneeled down to the ground, drawn by the satisfying cling the satchel of the bandit had made when colliding with the ground. However, once he crouched, he suddenly realized how tired he was. Without the heat of battle, the adrenaline flowed away and the glacial veil of focus melted, leaving him with all his exhaustion.

 _Damn it… I'm not suited for this, am I?_

He was, but it required training. He caught his breath quickly, and then started searching the corpse. He found the thing that clang, and it was a key. The woman was also carrying some gold, but the Elf was more interested in the key. Ahead of him was a small room, barred by an iron bars and only accessible through a small door. The Dunmer tried to open it with the key, and it worked. He was quite amazed by what he found inside: a significant amount of coins, a pair of long weapons which he did not even look at, and a book. He remembered seeing the signs of the cover before, and so he carefully fasted it to his belt.

He stopped a little more looking at this and that, observing and evaluating everything he could. After a while he moved, and reached the next big room shortly after.

This one was even more impressive than the first one. The cracks in the ceiling were a lot more pronounced, and the light that came inside was actually enough to have just one or two torches around. At the bottom there was another lake, and the miners had created similar wooden bridges to get from one ledge to the other. Near the shore of the small lake there was a small crafting station, and a bandit was bent on the forge, hammering a chunk of metal. Azrael hoped the noise to cover his footsteps, but unfortunately for him it didn't work as he planned. He might have been silent, but most certainly not transparent.

He understood that only when an arrow hit him from the side, penetrating the armor and wounding him.

 _Azura's sake… Awareness, you fool! You've got eyes? Look around, damn you!_

He groaned, took a deep breath and ripped the arrow from his flesh. He felt hot blood coming down his back, but he didn't give that any attention. Enemies were already coming towards him, and the glacial shroud gradually re-directed his thoughts on the battle only and the adrenaline made the pain fade, although making his arms tremble because of the tension and the exhaustion.

The Elf looked around, and planned some basic defense. A bandit with a two-handed axe and one with a mace were running toward him, one sprinting down a bridge and the other one getting up some more, identical wooden stairs. The one that shot him had a bow, and was at a safe distance on the opposite ledge.

Azrael inhaled deeply, and gripped the blades more firmly.

The mace-wielding bandit found one of the quickest deaths ever seen: He dashed against Azrael so fast that the Dark Elf simply had to point the sword in his way, letting him impale himself on the blade. The bandit got pierced from side to side, and the Elf gave up every to recover the sword from the flesh cage it was trapped into.

The other bandit with the axe was more careful, and instead of attacking directly he kept swinging from side to side trying to corner the Dunmer. However, repeating that movement for so long hindered his flexibility, something that Azrael used to his advantage. He dodged to the side, evading the blade of the axe, and slashed from left to right; the sword penetrated both armor and flesh, and got stuck.

 _Non my lucky day today, is it? he_ thought, a tired smile on his lips.

With a hiss of pain he pulled the bow Hadvar gave him fro his back. He didn't feel very confident using it the first occasion, but this time he had no choice. He nocked the arrow and then pulled the string.

It was pretty difficult, and it required some strength, but he years spend in the farm made him strong enough for that task.

With astoninshing precision, unexpected accuracy and perhaps a bit of luck, he let the projectile go. The arrow hissed through the air, flew across the room, and then hit the archer in the neck. He fell from the bridge and dropped in the water, which got stained of vermillion red.

 _I'm not a simple killer,_ Azrael realized. _A mere murder kills one. He doesn't kill as many as me, and in no so short time. I'm not a murderer, I'm a warrior._

That was true. Partly. Azrael was incredibly talented with a sword, but he was still young in the spirit. His hearth still dreamed of honor, he though with pride that nobility can be acquired by killing. There's nothing more wrong than that. For the time being, he was venturing far away the way of the Assassin, but sooner or later the Shadow calls us all: few hear the call, fewer pay attention to it and even fewer respond to it. But Azrael was growing up, and even in that moment the Shadow was calling him; he just didn't hear it, but no matter. He would have answered in time.


	5. An Honored Companion

'You handled yourself well, you would make for a decent shield brother.'

Azrael couldn't help but think over those words. Aela. Aela the Huntress. The first human he actually liked and respected. He had just run, nocked and arrow and fired, dealing the killing blow to the Giant they were engaging. The shot had broken through its shoulder, cracking the collarbone of the monster.

She was proud, convinced, and fierce. Azrael admired her.

The Dark Elf was sitting in the Bannered Mare, drinking mead non stop. He just… he had to forget in order to think better and understand what happened. Too much happened too fast.

 _Dragonborn… h_ e repeated to himself. 'Those born with dragon blood in 'em,' had said the soldier. _I am a Dunmer, I was born in the fire of Red Mountain, I'm a pure-blooded Dark Elf! And now they say I share the life essence of those… things?_ he thought with disdain. He couldn't deny it, though. He had felt the very soul of the creature floating into him. He had welcomed that cascade of ancient knowledge like his own. He had greeted the memories of the dead Dragon like the legacy of a brother. One of his own kind. Something deep inside him had resonated powerfully when that had happened.

He drank and drank; his vision was blurring, but he remained awake and still perfectly lucid. He was proud of the power he was able to wield, but was disgusted by it. He remembered what the black dragon had done to that town, Helgen. It… well, destroyed was an understatement; obliterated sounds more like it. Born among magic, Azrael felt the unimaginable power that a simple word unleashed. Fus. A simple, incomprehensible word, but that released so much power he couldn't even measure it. The only thing Azrael ever used magic for was to light up the fire at home with a steady stream of flames, but that was it.

Out of all the madness, all confusion and the stings of fear that stormed his mind, only the words of the Huntress remained in his mind. The judgment of a capable human, who recognized skill, and was herself a talented warrior. That could have been his chance. His only chance. He had made his mind up. However, he couldn't know if that conviction was the result of his choice or pure and inevitable consequence of some other decision he had made. He couldn't tell, and didn't mind. He dropped the tankard on the table, took a deep breath and stood up. He waved at Adrianne, who smiled briefly at him, went to Hulda and put a gold pouch on the counter.

'Hey…' she hesitated. 'That's… almost double of what you owe me,' she said after a bit, while the Dunmer stared at her.

The Dark Elf shook his head with a weak smile. A strange, pale veil covered his eyes.

'I owe you half for the drink; the other half is for the welcome.'

Hulda smiled at him, asking herself from where could a such generous soul come from. Jon Battle-Born did not lie about him, he really had a heart of gold. She kept an eye on Azrael as he stopped at Ysolda's table.

'I should have that tusk for tomorrow. Nothing guaranteed, but I'll try,' said the Dark Elf, putting a hand on her shoulders.

She beamed at him. 'Don't worry. Just don't get killed.'

Azrael opened the door and shut it after him. He disappeared in the dark night, followed by a cold gust of wind.

* * *

'Why? Who wants to see a dead tree?' asked one guard to the other.

'Silence!' murmured his mate.

Footsteps.

The two guards raised and looked down the stairs that led up to the Wind District, and saw a figure. They recognized him immediately: He was As… Azra… something, but the important thing was that he seemed to have kill a dragon and devoured its soul. And, just to add up, was now formally the Thane on Whiterun.

He wore dark leather armor, boots and gloves, and a brown hood tight on his head.

'Greetings…' he said slowly.

'How do you do, Thane?' answered one of the two politely. The other was a bit more excited.

'There's been talk amongst the guards, that you are… Dragonborn. But such a thing… Surely that's not possible…'

Azrael just lowered his head a bit and went on, walking quickly and at a strong pace, refusing to respond. He just needed to do something to stop thinking, or to help him think of something different. The Dunmer looked at Dragonsreach, and cursed himself a hundred times. When he knew about that Dragon blood thing… he should have known… he shouldn't have come back. When he killed that Morag Tong, he never thought that it would have put in motion such a chain of events. But that seemed to be his fate. One choice was what it took to drag him away from Morrowind, and that had definitely been his choice. Now he was still suffering the painful consequences. Azrael walked on, head down. He felt the full weight of the events on the nape of his neck. After a few more steps he looked up at the two set of stairs before him, and than raised his head.

There was the first place he actually felt like could become a new home: Jorrvaskr. A sort of test awaited him, or so Aela said. A man named Kodlak was to judge his strength. 'If you go to him, good luck,' The Huntress had told him out in the fields, standing over the carcass of the Giant.

Azrael went up the stairs, still feeling the stare of the two guards on his back. When he arrived at the doors he waited before going in. He thought about it for the last time, because after there was no coming back. He did not believe in Fate, but the strange sensation that something stronger than him was driving his will was very strong.

 _The choice is one…_ _The rest is mere consequence._ He repeated now what would have been his mantra for a long time, but he would have understood how true it was only with time.

He opened the doors, and entered Jorrvaskr.

Months later he would have remembered that moment, asking himself how he could have believed that honor can be achieved by killing, that righteousness can be earned by slaying. The very moment in which he opened that door the Shadow screamed loudly, telling him to come back, that he had been fooled.

He didn't listen. Maybe he didn't even hear.

The Dunmer himself admitted he was a child when it came to battle, killing, rage… A child is soft, malleable, and absorbs as quickly as a sponge. When he is frightened of something he tries to understand his fear, but he still can't, because he's not a grown mind yet. Azrael was the same: he came across the strange joy of murdering, the weird taste of death. He just wanted to have someone like him beside himself, someone who was able to give him answers, to not make him feel alone. Someone who understood his killer nature and accepted it as part of his being.

For a child, Death is too much to confront; it's a strange enemy, one that lingers beside you until it decides to take you. For a child, not for an Assassin. Every being, Elves, Humans, the Beast Races, maybe even the Dragons or whatever else on Nirn, sees Death as a stalking daemon. For an Assassin it's a guardian angel.

Anyway, none of those doubts tormented Azrael's mind at the time. He was looking for answers, and he was about to find them; the last thing he needed was more questions.

As soon as he went through, he heard a sound. One that sounded a lot like a strong punch.

'Are those two at it again?' asked a man's voice.

Azrael looked towards the voice. A group of people were watching two warriors fist-fighting.

'Watch the eyes,' said the same voice, and Azrael recognized from who it came. It was a man with gray hair, bald on the temples, really focused on the struggle. The were other people surrounding the two fighters, but Azrael's gaze stopped on one of them.

Yes. Aela the Huntress was in the crowd as well. She stood there with crossed arms, the bow and the quiver hanging on her back, her bronze hair still dirty and ruffled. She was beautiful in a wild and savage way. The Dunmer liked her. He tried to ignore her as much as he could; now something else mattered to him.

 _On the right…_ Azrael said to himself, remembering Aela's instructions.

He walked silently, without alerting anyone of his presence. They wouldn't have cared anyway, they were busy watching the fist-fight on the other side of the room.

The room…

Azrael suddenly looked up, and then around him. He got so confused that he didn't even observe the hall in which he just entered.

There was a long table in the center, which was on a lower level then the entrances. It was surrounded by a higher section, where a lot of chests and furniture were positioned. The thing that most attracted his attentions, though, was the fact that he guessed right from the outside: the ceiling was made with the remains of a ship, or at the very least something that had the same shape.

He walked ahead, and on the extreme right there was a set of stairs. He descended, and opened another door, which led to a corridor. He went straight down, as Aela instructed him, but her directions weren't necessary anymore: he saw the man, and old man with long and rough white hair and beard. He had to be Kodlak.

The Dunmer came closer. There was another man beside Kodlak, and they were clearly talking about something important. Azrael didn't hear them at first, but when he got closer he could overhear some things. Some interesting things.

'…But I still hear the call of the blood,' said the other man, clearly another companion judging by the armor and the shield that lied beside him.

'We all do,' answered Kodlak. 'It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome.'

 _They can't be talking about my problems…_ thought Azrael. _Then why does the conversation fit so perfectly for me?_

'You have my brother and I, obviously,' responded the other man. 'But I don't know if the rest will come along quite as easily.'

'Leave that to me.'

For a short time silence fell; it was then that Azrael stepped forward. Kodlak turned and looked towards him.

'A stranger comes to our hall,' he declared.

 _Curious…_ thought Azrael. _I though I would have chocked on my saliva, but no… I am perfectly calm. This man is probably known all over Skyrim and I don't have the slightest fear of him._

'I'd like to join the Companions,' The Elf stated, with the same tone as the one Kodak had greeted him with.

For another spilt second silence fell.

'Would you now?' said Kodlak, turning even more towards the Dark Elf. 'Here, let me have a look at you.'

He stared right in the Dunmer's eyes. He felt a strange sensation, but understood immediately it wasn't magic or some other trick: only the incredibly penetrating gaze.

'Yes, perhaps,' said the warrior after a while. 'A certain strength of spirit.'

'Master…' said the other man. 'You're not truly considering accepting him?'

 _You little bastard…_ thought Azrael, staring spitefully at the man. _I saw you almost gasping, and for no reason… I'm quite certainly older than you. I bet you've never been as close to death as I've been, and I'd wager you've neither saw nor killed a Dragon in your life._

But the true superiority between the two was the self-control. Both thought the worst possible things about each other, but the man, Vilkas was his name, almost chocked, and Azrael just blinked with anger.

The voice of Kodlak brought the Dunmer back to reality.

'I'm nobody's master, Vilkas. And last I checked we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.'

'Apologies,' said Vilkas, lowering his head. 'But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider.'

 _Liar…_ though Azrael. _It's clear from your face. You know me and you even know my name._

'Sometimes the famous come to us,' said Kodlak, like he was reminding the thing even to himself. 'Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.'

'And their arm,' pointed out Vilkas.

'Of course,' said Kodlak, turning his attention back to Azrael. 'How are you in battle, boy?'

The Dunmer sighed, but then decided to tell the more believable thing:

'I have much to learn.'

The warrior grinned shortly and seriously.

'That's the spirit,' he said. 'Vilkas, here, will get started on that,' and then turned his attentions to the other man. 'Vilkas, take him up to the yard and see what he can do.'

'Aye,' he said, not covering too well the annoyance in his tone.

 _Now we'll see who's the best, won't we?_ thought Azrael.

But again he didn't grin, didn't laugh nor growl. He just glared at him for a moment.

The Dunmer's eyes flashed bright red. Believe it or not, Kodlak saw it, and for a moment he even had the temptation to take back his words. But he didn't, because what he felt was a personal emotion and not a rational suspect. Even then, the old man saw something very few people had the honor of laying eyes upon. On the outside, Azrael was still the generous, good-willing, evil-purging warrior and hero, but on the inside? Inside him the Assassin slept, and in that moment it broke free through that simple gaze. Nothing important. Just a flash of red light. A sparkle of crimson flames that could turn into inferno.

* * *

Azrael took a deep breath, and then opened the door.

He stopped for a second: he thought he'd only found Aela, but with her was another man, the balding one that cried instructions to the two fist-fighters when he entered.

'Blood running hot?' she asked, seeing the Elf.

'No, I have your shield,' Azrael answered with a nervous smile. He handed it to her.

'Ah, good. I've been waiting for this,' she said, putting it on the dresser beside her. 'Glad to see you made it up here.'

The other man frowned slightly. 'You know this one?' he asked Aela. 'I saw him training in the yard with Vilkas.'

'Ah, yes,' said Aela, smiling mockingly. 'I heard you gave him quite a thrashing.'

 _Thrashing is quite an understatement…_ thought Azrael, remembering their clash. He out-sped him big time, playing on his presumption.

'Don't let Vilkas catch you saying that,' observed the man.

Aela suddenly turned his attention to Azrael, half-closing her eyes. Serious stuff was about to go down.

'Do you think you can handle Vilkas in a real fight?'

 _Hm… Am I to play the glacial one or the fiery one?_ Azrael asked himself. _She'd like the fiery one more, but that would almost be treason to my very being. No, I'm a glacial one. Colder than the freezing winters they have here. Well, or so I'd saw if I was a poet._

'I don't care for boasting,' the Dunmer replied, shaking his head slightly.

'Ah, a man of action,' she estimated, raising an eyebrow. 'Here, let's have Farkas show you where you'll be resting your head.'

'Farkas!' called the other man.

Heavy footsteps, and then a tall and vigorous man appeared by the open door.

 _Oh… He was out there with Aela._ remembered Azrael.

'Did you call me?' he asked.

'Of course we did, icebrain,' sighed Aela. 'Show this new blood where the rest of the whelps sleep.'

'New blood? Oh, I remember you,' he said, recognizing Azrael. 'Come on, follow me.'

He turned and waited for him. The Dunmer turned for a second, waving at Aela and looking briefly at the other man. The Huntress winked at the Dark Elf, and smiled weakly.

As soon as he left the room, he heard the voice of the other man.

'All these younglings scampering around…' he said.

'Worried some of them is going to take your place?' asked Aela.

'Some of them might try.'

'What then?'

'They might get themselves killed.'

'By you?' asked Aela, sniggering.

'They should be so lucky.'

Azrael shook his head, forcefully keeping calm. If he played the glacial one once, he needed to continue on that path.

'Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they're good people,' commented Farkas. 'They challenge us to be our best.'

The Dark Elf remained silent.

'Nice to have a new face around. It gets boring here sometimes,' continued Farkas.

Azrael didn't answer.

'The quarters are up here. Just pick up bed and fall in it when you're tired. Tilma will keep the place clean, she always has.'

They arrived at a small door. The Dunmer saw a few beds inside, illuminated by the weak light of a few candles.

'All right, so here you are,' said Farkas. 'Looks like the others are eager to meet you. Come to me or Aela in you're looking for work. Once you've made a bit of a name for yourself, Skjor and Vilkas might have things for you to do.'

Azrael nodded.

'Good luck,' said Farkas. 'Welcome to the Companions.'


	6. A hunter's lesson, a Huntress' question

The wind was howling, blowing from the North, and it was freezing. It was so cold that it dried and chilled everything it touched. A silver lining in all that was that it had dispersed all the clouds, and now the Sun was shining on the whole plain and on the exposed part of the woods East of Whiterun. _And they call this Summer…_ Azrael thought with a sigh. _Don't even want to think about the winter, then._

But it didn't take something like the winter to change the landscape. Whiterun and its hold had changed their appearance just in the last few days: a clash between an imperial and a stormcloak patrol left the main street covered in blood stains. The storm of the day before set alight a small copse. Lastly, there was what remained of the Western Watchtower: A crumbling pile of rocks, that still had the vague shape of a tower. It still was surrounded by various meters of devastated terrain.

That had been a hard fight indeed: the Dragon had nosedived several times just to breathe fire and trap the defenders in a circle of flames; it had scorched the land horribly while trying to do that.

 _What was his name?_ _Mirmulnir, yes…_ Azrael remembered.

That had seriously been a hard fight.

 _That monster was about to win when he hit the tower again with the tail,_ he recalled. _Those stone that fell almost killed both Irileth and the last three guards. Only Azura knows how I managed to hit him with that arrow in the wing._

The Dunmer looked behind him, observing the cracked section of the road. Some of the stone were pulverized and the soil had erupted from underneath. Two merchants had already asked to fix that, but it would have taken a lot of time.

 _Mirmulnir landed on the road, in a point where it was easy to incinerate everyone that came near. It had a decent tactical mind. Then… yeah.… it roared at me and covered me in flames. Lucky me I'm a Dunmer. Even Danica needed a whole day to mend those burns._

The Dark Elf touched the sword that hanged from his belt, sensing the familiar grip.

 _He lounged at me… Still surprises me how I dodged that bite. His teeth, damn it… they're as sharp as_ _Eorlund_ _'s swords. Where… Ah, yes, I hit it on the neck, then again under its… well, chin, if I can say that of a Dragon. Don't know how I had that idea of jumping on its head, but it worked. I'll never understand where I hit it, but I'd wager it was the eye. Nothing else could have been so soft._

The bones had been removed the passed night. The skin… let's say it evaporated.

Instinctively, Azrael watched the top of he Throat of the World.

 _Not yet, Old Guys, not yet,_ he thought. _Now I have more pleasant matters to take care of. I'm a Companion after all. Now formally as well._

He felt something that gave him strength, purpose, and meanwhile he calm around him prevented it from exploding. He felt the silence, broke only by his light footsteps and the occasional gusts of wind. He liked silence, he remembered how soothing it can be. It allowed him to perceive the full force of the new results he had reached. He was a Companion, the best fighters in all of Skyrim. The warrior that battle all evil and everything that might harm the innocents and the frail. His dreams had come true, finally. With a few things that needed clearing, but mostly everything was perfect.

* * *

 _Okay… This should kill it. What? Wait a second…_

Footsteps.

'Greeting, Shield-Brother.'

Azrael raised an eyebrow, and turned towards the new-comer.

'Welcome, Aela,' he said. He focused his attention back to the sleeping bear.

The Huntress silently walked by his side. 'A ledge…' she observed, looking down towards the animal. 'Good spot for a shot. How high is this?'

'Twenty arms, I'd say,' said the Dunmer, making his estimations and lowering the bow.

'Why are you shooting standing up?' she asked.

Azrael was really confused, and understood about half of what was happening.

 _What it the name of Azura is she doing here? Was she following me? What for?_

'If you know a better way, then teach me,' he said, without going through meaningless question. He hated discussing over things that were already clear. Luckily Aela appreciated this tendency.

'No worthless words? Just action?' she asked, grinning. 'Good. You're starting to impress me.'

 _That takes a good deal of skill…_ thought the Dunmer.

The Huntress kneeled and took her own bow; she waved at the Dark Elf, clearly encouraging him to do the same. Azrael obeyed and assumed her same posture.

'Regardless of how deadly is your shot, it doesn't hurt anyone to make it even more lethal,' she said, and while talking she nocked an arrow. 'Now, do exactly what I do.'

She kept the bow horizontally, and not vertically like Azrael was used to doing. He imitated the movement.

'Good,' she said. 'With the bow in this position you can draw it further than when you stand. It's a good tactic to use when not seen. It allows you to be more precise, and the shot to be deadlier.'

'You have to stop to do it, though,' objected the Dunmer.

'Yes,' she admitted. 'It clearly hinders your mobility, but in certain situations agility in not required.'

The Dark Elf had stopped wondering about the meaning of that encounter, and just listened. He was learning something he didn't even know existed as a tactic.

'Perfect,' she said, looking at Azrael's position. 'Now shoot.'

The result was fairly predictable: the bow was drawn beyond normal, and the resulting shot was seriously lethal. The Dunmer followed the projectile with the eyes, and it flew through the air a lot quicker than his normal shots; the arrow hit the bear right between the eyes. The animal died instantly, the missile had penetrated and cracked the bones.

'Nice shot,' commented Aela. 'You learn quickly.'

'Having a good teacher helps, too,' he replied with a cock of his eyebrows.

Aela grinned briefly, then stood up and looked down at the carcass. The Dark Elf read on her face that she was there to talk to him about something important, but hesitated. Reason unknown.

'Aela, what are you doing here?' he asked. 'This bear is a job you gave me. If you would have come here anyway then why don't tend to it yourself?'

'I was just about to explain,' she replied.

 _Really? Didn't look like it._

'You see, I needed to ask you something, and it was best if we did that in private. I believe you noticed that I tried to talk to you after Kodlak finished that ceremony,' she explained.

'Yes, I noticed; I also saw how surprised you were when I immediately asked for a job.'

'You've got a cunning mind, Shield-Brother,' she whispered. 'Very well, I admit I was surprised. Although I couldn't believe my luck: I sent you on this mission, and only I knew where you were going; so I followed you.'

'To what end?'

The Huntress remained silent for a second, then sighed shortly.

'First of all, your reward,' she said, handing a purse to the Elf. 'Second, my question: Yesterday, inside that barrow, something happened, am I right?'

 _Damn, she knows._

'I'd say no,' said Azrael slowly, 'had I been the only cunning mind here.'

Aela smirked weakly again.

'It's clear from my face, isn't it?' asked the Dunmer again. 'Nevermind, I wanted to talk about that with someone anyway. Got to say you're the absolute best candidate.'

'Because I'm the only one here?' she sneered.

'No,' replied Azrael calmly. 'Because I admire you.'

The Elf waited. He could have continued, but he wanted to leave Aela some time to think over those words. He would have continued anyway, she was quite confused by that confession, maybe he indulged her own pride and left her exposed for a moment. He continued when some time had gone by.

'Anyway… Yes, there was a little incident. You should know we ran into some Silver Hands, and maybe Farkas even told you that a large group was awaiting us near the entrance.'

She nodded.

'Well… When that group attacked I was blocked behind iron bars, of a trap; a very clever one. Farkas fought, and killed them all. Although not as a man…'

'But as a wolf,' finished Aela.

'You knew or just guessed?' asked the Dunmer.

'Guessed,' she said. 'I heard you asking something to the Old Man; you were talking in a frantic tone, which I've never heard you using. I counted fear out, being you, and understood it was surprise. I asked myself what could astonish you that badly, and thought that the Beast Blood was the only possible thing.'

'And you were right. To be honest I was a bit frightened and well.'

'And why?' she asked, surprised.

 _The blood lust,_ thought Azrael. _Killing has become normal for me, but I still fear that blind fury that grips me when I kill. The Werewolf seems the completion of that progress. I don't want to feed the beast inside of me, I want to tame it._

'Doesn't really matter,' said Azrael quickly. 'But why are you asking me this?'

'Just curiosity. For now.'

The Dunmer trembled: those last two words gave him the chills, even if he didn't understand their meaning. He took a deep sigh, and then looked at the Huntress.

'Well, nice of you to follow me here just to know if I was feeling well,' he said.

'We hunters take care of our own. We're lone predators, but it doesn't hurt to aid each another.'

They remained silent for a moment, but both took opportunity of the moment to rearrange their equipment. The Dark Elf tightened the buckle that held the quiver, and Aela checked her belt, seeing if the dagger was in the right place. Azrael felt strangely uneasy in her presence. He paid double the usual amount of energy on maintaining a strict control over what he did and said. In that moment specifically, he felt he had a chance to stay with her a bit more, and put some time into constructing the right sentence.

'So…' he began. 'I owe you a favor for today's lesson. What can I do for you, now?'

'Remember what I said to you the second day, when you asked to follow me?'

'Yes: "If you wish to hunt with me your feet need to be quick and your eyes quicker."'

'You're a quick study,' she said, grinning. 'I'm going to do just that for the rest of the day, until dusk. Do you wish to accompany me?'

'Gladly,' responded the Dunmer, feeling an odd shiver going down his spine. 'But do we really need to return to the city for twilight? Today's a full moon, there will be enough light even for a deer to see us.'

'No, I've something planned for this night. And it's in the city.'

 _Her tone…_ wondered Azrael. _Strange one. Enigmatic. Wonder what she's up to now… And also… Well, that I could ask her._

'I understand this planned thing involves me,' he whispered.

'My, my, you're too intelligent. Be careful with that sharp mind, not all people like having smart individuals surrounding them.'

'I know,' the Dunmer said, lowering his head. 'It could be part of the reason I had to escape Morrowind.'

'Really?' she asked. 'How?'

Azrael sighed, then shook his head.

'I don't want to talk about it,' he said with low voice, almost whispering.

'Fine,' she answered, quickly settling the matter. 'Returning to the topic, yes, involves you.'

'What do you need me for?'

'You'll see this night. I'll not spoil your fun,' she responded, smirking.

 _She even has a vague sense of humor while she's not at Jorrvaskr. Back at the Hall she's all severe and stern, but out in the woods she almost laughs… I didn't even think she was able to. I'll have a chance to see now what she's really like._

* * *

'It's been a long time since I hunted with someone else. Have you ever had someone you shared everything with, even the most important moments?'

 _What's that supposed to be?_ Azrael wondered, without finding any answer. _A taunt, something to get information out of me?_

'Well, in a certain way. They were friends. It's my first time hunting with someone, if that's what you're asking.'

'And how are you finding it?'

'Entertaining,' he answered cooly, playing on the neutral ground as much as he could.

It wasn't a lie, quite obviously, but it was maybe an understatement. He was having the time of his life. Aela was always so distant and serious, with very little time to dedicate to others. Now she was different, and yet so very much herself. Azrael asked which one of the two was the true Aela, but came to the conclusion that both were one and the same. It was the context, the people around her, that made her behave a certain way. The important thing was that she was there, with him, conceding all of her time and attention to him alone, among so many others. And she was still fierce, savage and beautiful, just not in the same way.

'What about you?' he asked, tying to redirect. 'Am I hunting partner material?'

'You most certainly are,' she said firmly. 'You are a sharp talker and an even better huntsman. Bow and word combined have brought many people very far.' She stopped, but right when Azrael suspected she was done something more seemed to slip out of her mouth. 'And you're very good company.'

The Dunmer was too confused to think of something intelligent to say and fell back on good old irony to escape the sticky situation. 'Thank you… Mention that like it's nothing,' he said.

She seemed to be taken aback. 'I didn't mean…'

'Chill,' he said, smirking. 'I was joking.'

She grinned too. 'That's what I mean for pleasant company,' she said.

Silence fell for while. They were getting closer to a clearing, where they had tracked down a lone male elk. It was easy prey, and would have served the halls of Jorrvaskr well enough with its delicious meat and fine hide. Azrael looked up at the sky.

The Moons were rising.

 _Maybe I'm becoming a blasted paranoid but… Is that truly a coincidence that we spoke of Werewolves the night that both the Moons are high in the sky?_

Masser glowed of an alarming shade of red, and even Secunda was covered by a vermillion veil.

 _It's almost twilight, in moments all may unravel. But what will happened?_

'Come on, that one's yours,' said the Huntress.

Azrael kneeled, as she taught him that very morning, and drew the bow as far as he could. Then released the shot. The arrow hissed through the air, flew over a couple of bushes and struck the target it the throat. The elk fell to the ground with a bell. Silence fell.

'Goon one,' Aela said. 'You're getting better still.'

Azrael sighed, softly. He didn't want her to hear.

 _This was the last one. Now back to the city, where things will get clear. Perhaps._

He felt nervous, and didn't know exactly why. He gazed at Aela, with suspicion.

 _What are you planning, Aela? I don't know you well, I don't have the slightest idea of that that look you give me means. Are you finding me interesting, curious, or do you have some evil, terrible plans for me?_

An idea bolted through his mind. He didn't listen to it, he didn't want to. But in the end that would have not changed much. He already considered himself a blood thirsty beast.

 _Being turned into the ultimate stalker wouldn't change me that much, but… I still fear it, I fear that part of me and the beast I might become would be a living incarnation of my worst self._

For a second dread took control over him, but he repelled it. He raised his head, half-closing his eyes, which flashed of a hellish red; for a second he felt the wind blowing in his hair, the cold penetrating through his bones, and looked at the vermillion Moons.

 _I'm not about to give in._

A dreadful smile appeared on his lips.

 _Never,_ he though.


	7. The Hunter's Path

_Blood…_

Its vision was getting clearer, the mist was disappearing from the world, revealing a form of the land he had never seen before.

Its gaze covered the complete arch before its eyes, allowing it to see so many things in a single glance… It could spy the movements of the prey without the slimmets of possibilities to fail. Their shadows were clear in the moonlight. It could see the insects flying hideously ten meters ahead, and could see its victims fleeing a lot farther. The colors were strangely blurred, but the light of the Moons remained clear in the sky. A light that was red.

 _Blood…_

It heard things he had never been able to hear. Sounds he never even imagined now came natural to its ears; the slight whisper of the wind, the wails of the preys that were about to get caught, the river flowing calmly in its bed and the blood rushing through its body.

 _Blood…_

It smelt things that never thought had a scent in the first place. It smelt fragrances of unknown origin, stenches he never perceived before. In between the ocean of smells it sensed the one of the prey. Flesh, blood… Human blood.

 _Blood… Hunger…_

It raised its head, crying with all its might to the two Moons, the only two sure things that were there, two brilliant light sources that brightened the night. No cry escaped its maws, though. The air rushed through its throat quickly, then went out, but instead of a scream a vicious howl came out of its mouth. From the forest nearby its brothers howled back, in a unique and terrifying sound. The echoes died out only after several seconds.

 _Hunger… Blood… Hunt._

The monster bolted ahead. Its fur was black as night, bushy and rough. The paws ended in long digits, which in turn ended in long and cruel claws, sharp as razors and hard as metal. In the complete darkness one could see only a thing of the face of the beast: its eyes, red eyes, flashing with insatiable hunger.

 _Hunt… Hunger… Blood…_

In the end, that was the path he had been treading on all that time.

The Hunter's Path.

* * *

That night is remembered as dreadful to this day. It all started a few hours before Midnight, and didn't stop until three or four hours before dawn. Howls echoed even into Whiterun, and many people shut the doors and barred the windows, afraid that the beasts would attack the city. It had been a few years since the wolves came in the open in such number, and from the walls the guards spotted different pack roaming the plains.

In the remains of the Western Watchtower, demolished by the Dragon, Vokir and his colleague awaited all night with their hands on the handle of the swords, jumping out of the bedrolls as soon as they heard a howl, sensing the adrenaline flowing in their veins as an ancestral fear gripped them. The wolves circled around the tower for a long time, discouraged only by the bonfire the two had kept lit between their bedrolls. The torches were ready by the side of the fire, and the oil urn with all the fuel needed wasn't far.

In the Honningbrew Meadery Sabjorn and Mallus Maccius, his assistant, jumped out of their bed when they heard fierce howls coming from the nearby forest, followed by an awful lot of treads. A lot, clearly a pack of wolves, but why were they exiting the woods? They ran away. in the direction of the river, and they heard them cross it. After that no more beats came near the meadery, but the howls didn't stop until early in the morning.

In Jorrvaskr Kodlak Whitemane awaked in the heart of the night, and heard a howl. He smiled sadly, and then fell asleep again. A sleep tormented by the nightmares that weren't very different from what was actually happening out in the plains.

In a far-away place near Falkreath, in a pine wood, a man slipped out of the shadows and looked at the blood-red Moons. He sighed with a cruel smile. He too was feeling the blood running hotter in his veins.

* * *

'We'd better return to the city!' said one of the guards.

'Commander Caius told us to stay on the road in case rebels attack from the North. That is not up for discussion,' answered the sergeant.

'Are you blind, sir?' asked the soldier. 'Who in Oblivion would come this way? The Stormcloaks are neither deaf nor stupid! They'll never get through a plain with roaming wolves on the hunt, and the Gods know why they are so many!'

'Shut your trap!' cried the officer. 'Orders are orders, and the rebels can handle a few wolves, as well as we can. Come on, men!'

The mounted patrol continued. The horses were nervous because of the howls, and a few even tried to unsaddle their riders a couple of times. The guards often looked up at the two Moons, that grew brighter by the minute.

'What in blazes is going on?' asked one.

'Nothing,' replied the sergeant. 'The Moons are high in the sky and the wolves are going crazy about that. I see nothing strange there.'

'But they look aggressive. What if they attack us?'

'Us?' laughed the officer. 'Attack five armed men? On mounts? With torches? We can hold our own against wolves, even the horses can defend themselves for some time. Nothing to worry about.'

'But…' began another soldier, hesitating. 'It's a full moon. What if Werewolves are on the prowl?'

The officer burst again into laughs: 'What have you been all drinking? Something strong, I hope.'

'Sergeant, this is no joke. If a Werewolf's out to get us—'

'Can you shut up and stay silent? You've annoyed me with your fairy tales! You are a bunch of Gods-damned paranoids! Now be quiet and let's move! We'll return to the city only at daybreak, when we are to go back. Is that clear?'

No answer.

'Good. Now please stay alert, Divines' sake!'

'Why do we need to stay alert if there are no threats around?' asked a soldier, provoking him.

'Because it's a soldier's job to remain vigilant!' screamed the officer. 'It is out job and duty to watch this road! By Kynareth, when will you understand this!'

* * *

Howls. The smell of the prey. The blood red light of the Moons.

 _The prey is this way… Hunger… Blood… Hunt…_

Heat. Blood rushing at incredible speed. The victim was close, they could sense it. Very close… Still too far. Hunger gripped its stomach, saliva began flowing though its mouth down into its throat.

 _This way…_

They never lose their way. They can't. There's only one path.

The Hunter's Path.

* * *

'And when it's time, we'll—'

A howl surpassed the screams of the officer. The soldiers looked at the forest, frightened, terrified. Dread flowed into their heads as they heard a lot of treads coming towards them. They came from the edge of the woods, where a verdant undergrowth grew and prospered, and they could hear it being uprooted and torn away from the soil.

Suddenly a dark figure emerged from the trees. It had red, cruel eyes, flashing with unending rage and endless hunger. Its paws had nasty claws at the end, and considering the strong arms you could imagine how much a swing of those overgrown nails could hurt. The beast ran on four paws, but was clear that it could easily stand and walk using only two. It was drooling, its mouth was half opened and its sharp teeth blinked in the red bright on the Moons.

'By the Gods…'

'It…' muttered the officer, 'it can't be!'

The Werewolf leapt.

A claw flashed red in the moonlight, hitting the horse of the first soldier. The animal neighed desperately, with pain, but fell silent when the beast pushed him aside with non-human strength. The rider got crushed under the carcass and died instantly.

'Werewolf!' cried a soldier.

The beast looked at him in the eyes for a second, then swung with the left claw high enough to crush the chest of the guard. The horse reared up, neighing with fear, and unsaddling the… well, just the legs of the rider, really. The rest fell off on its own. The man had been rent right in two.

The horse of the officer bolted ahead, and he fell heavily on the ground. One of the other soldiers grabbed the bow and nocked the arrow, but the Werewolf moved so fast he couldn't aim well. He released, desperately, but the monster dashed to the right in that exact same moment. The arrow hit one of his fellows' mount, which shook violently.

A sword flashed in the dark, and hit with a hushed sound. On the arm of the Werewolf appeared a red trickle of blood that got lost in the fur. The monster howled loudly.

A pack of wolves, normal wolves, emerged from the woods, running and howling themselves. They were a lot, and looked like the whole forest had started moving all of a sudden; those men's worst nightmares had become true in that very moment, right before they died.

'Gods save us… Aah!' cried the archer. He tried to move the horse and gallop away, keeping the lit torch pointed in the direction from where the beats came from. But the animals were smart, and two circled around the flame and bit the horse on two legs simultaneously. The mount fell heavily on the ground. The man rolled on the terrain as he dropped from the saddle, and a moment later the jaws of a wolf closed strongly on his throat. He didn't even had the time to scream.

The officer swung the sword again, but this time the Werewolf ducked and thus avoided the hit.

'Die you filthy beast!' yelled the sergeant.

He charged again, but the monster dodged to the left. He roared loudly, and the man felt the stench of blood and flesh in his breath. He trembled, but then found new courage.

'Just die!' he cried again.

He attacked from overhead, but the beast acted with incredible agility: It grabbed his arm mid-swing, and tore it right off. Blood spurted out of the wound, and the soldier screamed with all the strength he had left. He tumbled to the ground, hitting the temple, but didn't had the strength to cry anymore.

When razor-sharp teeth sank into his throat he remained silent.

The pack had followed the Hunter's Path, and they found their prey. They ate the meal and continued.

Only Hircine knew where the nightmarish chase would end.

* * *

 _Hunger… Blood… Hunt…_

They followed the light, the blood-red light. The Moons were high in the sky. The cut hurt, but it was regenerating with impressive speed.

 _Blood… Hun…_

 _No… No!_

The beast suddenly slowed, stepped lighter and finally stopped completely. It growled with anger, and then breathed. Even its breathing was terrifying. Its… No, his heart was beating heavier. Something shifted in the eyes of the monster, that seemed to gain a cold and calculating intelligence for a moment.

 _Bloo…_

 _No! Enough!_

The Werewolf roared so loudly even the wolves following him dispersed. Its legs quaked, its knees weakened and trembled.

 _Hunger…_

 _No! Now quiet! You are my daemon while I am inside my body, but I'm yours when we're inside yours! Now be silent, and do as I command!_

The beast shook his head, struggling at every breath. He limped towards the river, he sensed the water flowing even at that distance, sometimes using the anterior pods to keep his balance.

 _Blood… Hunger…_

 _No, no more, you filth. Now walk. Yeah… yeah, like this. Go, go forward. I want to show you something that will interest you. Go on… no reason to dawdle._

 _Hunt…_

 _I said no. Now move!_

Every single step was a battle won, every paw print left behind a sign of the clash. The river was now a few steps ahead. The water was everything the beast wasn't: calm, slow and cool. It flowed tranquilly, and reflected the light of the two Moons. The beast growled deeply, trying to stay away from it.

 _Go forth, and don't fret. It won't hurt… or it shouldn't._

The water reflected the exact image of the sky, clean as it was: It was dark, illuminated by the blood-red light on the Moons; beside them was a figure, dark, wild, furry; the paws ended with long, razor-sharp claws that flashed weakly in the crimson light. The vermillion eyes were worn off, tired, veiled by an icy veil that had nothing to do with that fierce shape that hosted it.

The Werewolf howled.

 _See? See, damn you? This is what you look like, this is exactly what you look like! You are a monster, you are a blood-thirsty beast. You are nothing!_

 _Hunger…_

 _No! No more! If you are to be my tormentor for the rest of eternity you'll do as I say! No questions! It's of no use to ask if you got it, you'll never understand! You can't understand a thing apart from the hunger and the hunt! Nothing! You are nothing!_

 _Blood…_

 _I said stop! I've had enough of this! Go, go! And if possible never return again! If you won't, I'll banish you, with every mean necessary, even if I have to end my life on the spot! You are nothing, you can't stand against me!_

 _Hunt…_

 _You fade_ _before my might!_

The Werewolf howled with pain, and fell heavily on its knees. The claws started to fade, the fur seemed to get absorbed by the skin itself and the hairs on the head of the monster began to grow, shaping into long, raven-black hair. The shapes of the beast got smaller and smaller, more precise and more definite. The dark skinned started to brighten, slowly turning dark grey and then getting paler, becoming very similar to the color of ash.

* * *

Azrael moved an arm; slowly. It was slightly stiff.

'Are you awake?' asked a female voice behind him.

The Dunmer shook violently, feeling the freezing wind on the… skin. He then realized he was completely naked. He looked at his arm, and there was a scar he never had. It was shallow, but long and larger in areas. The up-down swing of a blade, wielded by someone not too sure on the grip.

 _By Azura… Daedra-damned nightmares. All those howling…_

He stopped for a second, and looked again at the scar on the arm. It was then he remembered. It was then he understood.

 _Azura, Boethia, Mephala…_

Azrael felt a hand on his shoulder. A delicate touch. He looked behind him. His neck got hit by the wind, and was awfully rigid. He distinguished the figure kneeling by his side: bronze hair, a war paint on her face, a bow on her back, a dagger hanging from the belt and a focused gaze.

Aela smiled briefly.

'I was starting to think you might never come back.'


	8. The Forge of Sorrow

The heat of the forge. The beating of the hammer.

Eorlund took the steel bar out of the fire and quenched it. Steam rose and got into his eyes, while the familiar sound of the metal cooling reached his ears. As soon as the vapor dispersed, the old blacksmith looked at the metal bar. It still needed some shaping, but the edges were already smooth enough for the blade he had in mind. He just needed to sharpen the sides a little bit. The rest would have been done on the grindstone.

The sky was clear. The wind cold. It had kept blowing from the South for two days straight. When it does that, the weather is always good. The clouds collide with the high mountains of the border, and pour all the rain they carry on them. Not one clouds manages to arrive in the planes. Eorlund liked it. The air was cool, the wind also, but the rays of the Sun were warm. Not too hot and not too cold. For a Nord, obviously.

The old blacksmith heard some light footsteps.

'Who goes there?' he asked.

'The Not-quite-whelp-anymore.'

The old man smirked weakly, and sighed. Azrael's comments had become more and more sardonic as time passed. They had become sad, self-ironic to the point of being self-mocking as well. He refused to tell him anything, but Eorlund had lived long enough to perceive that something was wrong in him. It could have been anything. All he could do was guessing, and none of his deductions seemed likely. Still, he wasn't blind. He was growing more bitter with each passing day.

The Dunmer walked to the side of the forge, where there was the large stone on which Eorlund put all of his creations. He sat down on one spot that was free of weapons and clutter, lowered his head and buried his face in his hands. His long hair fell down on his chest. Word around Jorrvaskr was that he had been woken in the middle of the night for various times. He apologized, telling them it was just nightmares. But nightmares or not, he wasn't sleeping very well, and it was rather clear. He had lost some weight, his behavior had become extremely brash, arrogant and even wrathful, at times. He had grown shadowy and unfriendly. Many said it was impossible to have a conversation with him. Eorlund was a exception.

'I see you've returned. Any news?' asked the old Nord.

'None,' the Dunmer muttered, without even raising his head.

'Did you find what you were looking for in that castle?'

'Yes.'

'Speak, then. Don't force me to ask continuously.'

The Dark Elf sighed deeply, shaking his head slightly. Eorlund casted a quick glance at him, and then went back to the shaping of the steel bar. The edges were now much smoother, but still needed some treatment in the hot flames before he could start refining the details with the grindstone and the specialized tools. He quietly waited for the Dunmer to speak. Patience was the main thing that was needed when talking to him.

'I found three men outside,' Azrael began, slowly and coolly. 'They asked for my help. That stronghold was apparently the home of someone else before the Silver Hand swooped in. I cleared the whole fort quickly. We rejoined once I reached the courtyard. They didn't want to talk to me at first. They were terrified by me.'

'I wonder why' said the old man, smirking.

'The way I was fighting,' Azrael replied, careless of the irony in the Nord's tone. 'They told me that I moved so fast they could barely see my blades moving, that a shroud of flames surrounded me and scorched the ground I walked on. One of them told me that he saw my face while I fought, and my expression frightened him for a few moments. Can't really blame him. Every time I kill I loose control, I just began slashing and dashing and cutting out of instinct. A killer instinct.'

'You've described me this feeling some times already,' commented the Nord.

'Because it's the predominant one, lately. It's unbearable. Every time I completely abandon all reason and awareness and just leap into battle. Once in there, there is no coming back until every single person in my sight is dead. I emerge from the heat of the fight with wounds bleeding profusely, impacts, broken bones… It takes all my ability with magic and all the regenerative concoctions I carry to keep me standing after I get out.'

Eorlund thought, but many myths and legends told about battle frenzies like that the Elf was describing, and there was no way of knowing for certain what was it. He did not have any clue of what it could really be. He had his suspects, but none of them had solid basis. He had stopped wondering since the last time Azrael came to him.

'Because of that I'm always enraged. I fear that I could loose control of me any second, and that makes me tense. The tension makes me nervous, and angry.'

The old blacksmith had a sudden flash. He wasn't sure, but he remembered seeing that scene and hearing those words on another occasion, when he was young. An idea raced through his mind as he put down the blade he had been working on, now finished. He stepped away from the forge and looked at the Dunmer, who had not shifted a millimeter since he started talking. He had not yet raised his head.

'Listen, Azrael,' said Eorlund. 'I'm afraid I can't help you with that, but if you want I could have something that eases your tension.'

'Meaning?'

'Come to the forge and craft something.'

'You're joking.'

'I'm not.'

'Then you're insane. I've no hint on how to make a forge work, let alone the better one that exists in this pitiful land.'

'Try.'

'No.'

'I repeat. Try.'

'No.'

'What's wrong with you?' asked Eorlund, and this time he was the calm one of the two. 'You have a problem and don't even try to find solutions? Now, that is true insanity.'

'I'm afraid.'

'Afraid of what?'

'Of everything that is new. It might bring more pain. More suffering.'

'I'll be watching you very closely. You have nothing to fear. Now, come over here and stop playing the infant. I understand that it's hard to come out of the cradle, but one can't live forever in it.'

The Dunmer turned his head very slowly, and glared terribly at the blacksmith. Eorlund swallowed, but stood still without moving, still with a hand in the direction of the forge. The angry stare of the Dark Elf could have turned pretty much everyone's knees into jelly, but the old Nord knew that gaze. Suffering, pain. Agony. He did not move. Not one millimeter.

'Fine,' said the Elf.

Azrael stood up, slowly, and walked over to where Eorlund was standing. The Nord moved to the right, leaving him some space and sitting on the chair he kept there. It was always empty. He never stopped looking at the Dunmer, who positioned next to the Skyforge and started gazing at the flames. The old blacksmith knew that he needed to immediately start giving him orders, otherwise he would have grown tense. Doing nothing makes an angry person very tense.

'Good,' he said. 'First thing, since it was getting a little less hot, blow the bellows a couple times.'

Azrael complied. He did it with an unnecessary strength, but that was quite obvious.

'Now,' continued Eorlund. 'Take that iron bar over there… No, the other one. Good. Now put that in the fire. You should… What are you doing?'

Azrael had grabbed the bar with his hands and had put that in the fire gripping it, his bare skin inches away from the burning coals. Sparks raised and reached his fingers, but he did not react or move away. He looked right back at Eorlund, with a strange, amused and challenging smirk on his lips.

'I'm a Dunmer,' he said, glacial.

'That could be handy. You'd have to use an instrument otherwise. Keep that in the fire for a bit more. Just a second. Fine, now it should be hot enough. Put that on the anvil. Perfect. Now, take the fuller and start expanding the shape. It needs to be a sword, or at the very least some kind of blade, so we need a flat part we can later work on to obtain the edge.'

The Dark Elf did as told. Every action he made, every hit he laid, was still unnecessarily strong. Aside from that, however, he had recovered one habit that Eorlund had admired in him when he first joined the Companions and that e hadn't seen for quite a while: patience. A stoic kind of patience. Azrael hit the metal, but his strong and imprecise hits deformed the metal in ways he did not want. He did not give up, he did not throw all away. He just took the hammer and beat back the piece that had been shaped badly, and started again. The old Nord looked as he used all the instruments without need of his instructions. He had seen Eorlund work many times, and he had managed to remember every little part of the process; those memories and his intuition were the only things he needed.

'So,' said the blacksmith. 'Now tell me what you've found in that fortress.'

'Aela sent me to fetch something regarding their future plans. I've found only a map with some indications on it. Some of the text is in a language I do not know. Maybe it's just a code or something else of that such.'

'Have you discovered anything?'

'They seem to be gathering closer to Whiterun. They have taken positions on the border with the Pale, the Rift and other Holds, but they are never that far off from here. I don't know why they are getting this close, it'll make only easier for us to dispatch them. Unless, that is, they are planning at attack themselves.'

'Impossible.'

'Nothing is impossible in this place, old man. My previous investigations show that their men are a large number, and I found several trained soldiers in the fort I cleared. Some had enviable equipment, both weapons and armors. They were a lot, and not only warriors but some mages as well. If anything, they are rallying. If not to attack us, I have no idea of why.'

'They could be expecting the Companions to attack them, and are trying to be ready for that. Both you and Aela have already eliminated a fair amount… Reduce the size of the blade.'

'Is it too large?'

'Yes. The edges would be very hard to smooth, and the resulting weapon would be unusable. Use the tongs for that. Not even you can grasp melting steel with your hands. Continue.'

'There's not much else to tell. Do I need to use the fuller for this?'

'No, the chisel is better. Use the fuller once the metal has been cut. Quench that in the water first, the metal is bending because of its own weight. Slowly… Good. Now, you were saying?'

'That we don't have a lot more clues to follow. Farkas has found another fragment of Wuuthrad, and that's it. We don't have a lot to move on. Our directions are split anyway. Me and Aela are working on wiping out the Silver Hand and the others are searching for pieces of that axe. Kodlak is not of much help, either. He just sits in his chamber all day doing basically nothing.'

'The man is old. He is tired. Leave him to rest.'

'You're old, too, and I've not seen you rest once.'

'I'm resting now,' smiled Eorlund. 'I'm not doing anything.'

'You are listening to my rant. That's something.'

'But it does not involve hammering something or cutting flesh with the things that got hammered,' replied the old man, laughing. 'Listening to a rant is a completely different kind of effort, one that I don't tend to experience very often. It's curious for me to listen to someone. Something new.'

'You sound surprised.'

'I did not expect experiencing something new at my age. I was proven wrong. I saw a Dragon fly over the city, the one who killed it standing right in front of me. I've seen the Empire challenged in his rule for the first time since the Great War. And now I'm listening to someone who has issues with his life and I'm trying to ease his pain by teaching him what I do best. It's quite the thing, believe me.'

'You forge weapons,' said Azrael, apparently ignoring what the old man had said and going on his own tangent. 'Someone will kill with those. Does that bother you?'

Eorlund was old, but definitely not stupid. It took him a while, but he reconstructed the connections that led the Dunmer to ask him that question. His mentions about himself being surprised had brought the Dark Elf to the conclusion that he was someone that retained some kind of emotion, that never lost the ability of being amazed. Eorlund retained some naivety even at his age. That was why Azrael had asked such a thing to the old man.

'It doesn't,' replied the blacksmith, calmly. 'I've done this all my life, and in the end I realized that there is no point thinking about what end my weapons will serve. Creating weapons and armors is an honorable craft, while killing is another. Now, I don't really believe that killing is honorable, I just think that eliminating a threat is. In the end, I don't care. My art is creating death instruments, which are beautiful by themselves. One day, they might serve another purpose. That's none of my business.'

'I see.'

'Are you going to tell me that I'm irresponsible? That I should think to what goal my creations will be used for?'

'No. You're a selfish man, and you admit it. Fine by me.'

Eorlund looked at the Elf, hammering the metal and using the chisel to cut away the parts he didn't need. Now he was working with utter calm, surgical precision and cold calculation. The wrath that guided his arm some minutes before had seemingly vanished, but it wasn't that simple. He was channeling it, redirecting the energy his rage created and using it to fuel his rational and sensible side. And that was the side of him that the old Nord admired most, because of its power and wisdom. The thing that most stunned him, is that while in that rational and controlled state, Azrael could withdraw from judging someone completely. It's not that he didn't say his opinion, he didn't elaborate it in the first place. He didn't care about opinions, only knowledge.

The sword the Elf was crafting was slowly taking shape. Eorlund's eyes analyzed it intently, and he was pretty content with what his new student had done. It wasn't a masterpiece by any means, but it was effective and creative. The first few hits with the hammer had deformed the shape, and instead of grabbing a new piece of metal Azrael had adapted the shape and created a curved blade that looked like a saber. He also took the pieces cut away with the chisel and melted them back in the dull part of the blade, creating sharp spikes. The handle was the part where his inexperience was noticeable, but Eorlund had a couple of methods that could have fixed those imperfections right away. Overall, it was an excellent starting point.

'Well…' said the Dunmer, raising the blade. 'It's rubbish.'

'No,' said Eorlund. 'You're used to see my work, but I've learned to smith here and worked here for sixty years now. That is actually a pretty good blade. I liked how you changed it using your mistakes.'

'Mistakes are often the key to perfection.'

'Good that you understood that. You're on your way to become a great smith yourself, one day. One day not too far from here.'

Azrael laughed darkly. He felt calmed, the Beast inside him slumbering. His pain eased a little bit.

The two stared at each other and laughed weakly, looking at the curved sword. Eorlund had seen right: the Dragonborn would have become a great blacksmith, and in little time. Neither of them could foresee the sad destiny that awaited the old Nord, though. Azrael arrived just a moment too late to save his teacher from the jaws of a Dragon, which then aided in something so great that the death of Eorlund almost looked acceptable by comparison. Still, Azrael never forgot that day. Since then, the Dunmer callsed every forge he owned "Forge of Sorrow".

As the Skyforge lives off the lives of heroes, the Forge of Sorrow flares with the skill and the soul of Eorlund, the second Nord that Azrael came to almost admire.


	9. A Dream Destroyed

A horrible snarl echoed through the cave and after that an irritating sound played out repetitively: it was something breathing, growling and groaning.

 _Whatever illness she has to make her sound like that, it's bad. She'd better see an alchemist. Last time I heard someone breathing that bad was beside my friend's bed just before he died…_

Azrael continued to circle around the center of the round cave, remaining as close as he could to the edges. His forehead was frowned, his eyes half-closed and his mouth shaped in a dreadful growl. Anger flowed into his veins as if it was fluid, fury raged through his head like lightning in a thunderstorm. Even his deepest thought were nothing but wrath and hatred. His skin looked opaque, as if covered with wax, from which raised weak blazes.

The Dunmer dashed towards his enemy.

A clawed hand rose into the air, flashing with yellow flames, and when it quickly waved fire roared ahead. The Dark Elf didn't roll, duck or try to dodge the flaming ball. He just turned his head away from it and covered his eyes with his arm.

A violent explosion made it clear that the projectile had reached its target. The witch didn't even had the time to laugh, because a second later Azrael emerged unscathed from the fiery inferno, still running and angrier than before. The armor was covered by smoke and his hair had been incinerated near the tip, but otherwise he apparently hadn't given a damn about all that fire. It seemed to have barely touched him.

The Elf was now very close, too close for the monster to attempt another magical attack. Her animal instinct guided her, as she slashed in front of her with the clawed hand anticipating the move of his adversary and preventing him from getting closer. But that was so incredibly stupid it was not even funny.

A flash of shining metal cut the air, then cut something else, and then stopped. Black blood was dripping from the blade. The Hagraven snarled with pain, looking at the four missing fingers from the hand she had just moved, but before she could do anything else the steel blade flashed again.

A limb flew away from the body.

The witch cried, raising its head to the ceiling, only making the job easier for the Dunmer. In a single whirlwind of lethal strikes the Elf cut the other arm of his enemy and slashed the body in two; the corpse was falling to the ground, but Azrael didn't wait and cut vertically.

The headless part of the feathery corpse fell to the ground in a black pool of blood, the two legs got separated and fell in different places, the torn arms stopped moving after a last spasm and the head rolled to the side, drawing a dark trail on the ground. Azrael growled again and kicked the headless and armless torso violently; once, twice, three times. The bones cracked with disgusting sounds, the thin skin of the witch got split multiple times, and more blood emerged from the wounds.

The Dunmer crouched and picked the head from the ground, wrapped it with thin ropes and knotted it to his belt, where it hanged lifelessly. He cleaned the blade of the black blood and the armor from the cinder. His body was intact.

 _Arcadia's draught proved effective, at least,_ he though, examining his unharmed skin.

A short hiss brought him back to reality. He raised his head and dodged to the right while two white, disgusting saliva balls bolted beside him.

 _I hate spiders… Giant ones especially._

He nocked and arrow, drew the bow and let the go of the string. His rage gave him strength, his hatred gave him purpose.

The arrow sank in one of the eyes of the monster, which trembled on the eight legs, stumbled and fell heavily on the ground. Two more approached from behind, but the Elf released another shot and impaled one against the wall, dodged to the right and nocked a final arrow. The last spider collapsed with a suffering hiss, and then silence fell again.

Azrael snarled, still full of anger. He walked up to one of the spiders and cut all the legs, slashed the head four times and then cried to the ceiling.

 _If Kodlak didn't tell me about the cure I seriously don't know where I would be. I almost feel like I've been betrayed, dragged into something without me having a choice! Why in Oblivion did they do this to me? Because they thought it was for the better! Who in blazes asked me if I wanted to become a Werewolf? No one!_

The one should have been Aela the Huntress, no point discussing that.

Azrael was slowly retuning on the path of the Assassin with each second that passed. His fear of madness had slowly turned into rage, and now it was turning into hatred. There was no coming back, he now would have had to walk to the end of the line and continue from there. Two paths were open to him: insanity or wisdom. It wouldn't have been his choice to make, sadly. But as of that moment, hatred was the only thing keeping him on his feet. The only person he ever trusted in this new life had betrayed him, and what's worse, done such a thing thinking it was a good one. Ignorance on top of conceit.

 _To unleash such power and not being able to set it free afterwards is not control, but weakness. An Elf, anybody really, is born to think, then why does someone want to eradicate this capability? Why would someone even want to stop thinking and replace his mind with a beast? Humans…_

He drew closer and closer to one thing, which he didn't want to admit, but in the end the stream of thoughts brought him there, and he felt no regret thinking that.

 _If anything happens, if anyone is hurt again by that filth that now sleeps within me, Aela will pay the price. Skjor met his end, and that's the only thing that brings me joy. Nothing more. Kodlak and I will cure this plague, no matter the cost, and if anything happens Aela will die. And I swear I'll be the one ripping her righteous heart out of her honorable chest._

You could be asking yourself where all his admiration went, where his affection had gone. How could he, Azrael, warrior like none other, dreamer of future honor and glory, turn before something that made him stronger, refuse it and planning to eliminate the person that brought him on that path?

The Dunmer are born within fire, they know how the heat feels; they know the flames, control them even. In their veins fire flows like blood, it is the very essence that keeps the Dark Elves alive. But they do not truly understand the flames: they can control physical and magical fire, but not the spiritual one. Azrael knew that now.

Hatred.

Being among the longest living beings on Nirn, Dark Elves learn to think and calculate. Sometimes they even abuse their reasoning and try to use them to their own advantage in spite of others, and that's why they are so despised. They control the flames, but prefer to live in the cold of their mind and their thoughts. Azrael was no different, that was why he turned his back to the opportunity that had been given him. He didn't want to live at someone else's will, to have a shadow lingering on his mind. All his feelings, all his dreams, every plan for the future had been burned into the greatest furnace ever seen: his own mind. Everything got consumed in there, his very heart had become a scorching inferno. The flames that flowed inside him left nothing intact behind, finding fuel in all the beautiful thoughts, burning and leaving behind only blazing embers, which he felt as rage. Once all had burned, the coolness of reason would have started to take over again. A rise from the ashes. The corruption would burn, and cold cinders would have remained.

 _If I can trust no one, then I won't. Not again. Trust is a fool's gift, naivety is an idiot's shield._ _No honor, no righteousness, nothing like this can be acquired by killing. You can't be pure if blood stains your hands. Ah, damn… You can't be pure. Period._

No one is innocent, he knew that. The are various degrees of guilt, but never utter innocence. Someone might just have done something wrong for fun, some other might even murder to make a living. It matters not.

 _If it takes and old man like Kodlak to understand this, then there is something really wrong with these people. He knows, I could see that in his eyes: he knows that the only thing that you can obtain by killing is satisfaction. Maybe those you saved can give you that, or maybe you could be content of that yourself. But it matters not. That rush, that surge I sensed when I killed that Morag Tong… It was natural. It was no beast, it was normal. That's how it feels to kill. And I like it. I like killing. Why in the world did I try to convince myself of the contrary?_

So, now we can answer. What remained of his need for glory? Nothing. Honor, glory, fame… meaningless things he dreamed about because they look good and convenient. They aren't. And now he understood that.

 _If I am to be someone special, and the Daedra know if that's true, then I'll do that on my terms. No more of this, once I manage to free Kodlak and convince the others to do the same I'll leave the Companions for good._

The Dunmer kneeled down, and sighed deeply. He had completed his task and slew the Witches, but now the likely most difficult part came. The Hagravens were wiped out and Azrael had decided to burn what was left of them alongside the whole hideout, but now he needed rest.

* * *

When the Dark Elf opened his eyes he couldn't calculate with certainty how much time passed. It happened him quite often, as he frequently did that same thing. He got used to it when he discovered that when he slept horrific nightmares came to haunt his mind. Those times he had waken up soaked in sweat and even more tired that when he went to bed.

Instead of sleeping he resigned to kneeling down and thinking. It both calmed him and rested him, two very important things.

 _For eons my brethren have lived under dreadful circumstances. Mine is no different. Even though Hircine is not in ours House of Troubles it's still no different. Thousands between my kind have already confronted my enemies before, and they triumphed._

For some strange reason, the smaller he felt the easier it was to endure his pain and the torment. A wise soul always grows smaller in pain.

 _For these Nords lycanthropy is Hircine's gift. For me… It's like Lord Sheogorath has decided to test my metal. After all evil is evil, and it doesn't really matter from where it comes from._

There were no real difficulties in all of which he confronted. The thing he was afraid of was uncontrolled change. Changing made his very being unstable, and Azrael hated losing control over himself. He felt no fear though, for, as we already mentioned, all his emotions burned in the scorching flame of hatred, in the blazing fire of his own wrath.

 _I shouldn't fear change. Lord Dagon taught us that it can be dangerous and that it always brings destruction where it comes, but Azura told us that we should welcome it with open arms and accept it, just like the night embraces dawn and eventually turns into the day. Only through the Shadow darkness can become light. And the opposite._

It's funny how, in the time of need, he abandoned all his previous ideas and went back to the very roots of his culture. His gods, the ideas of his people and of his land, the natural mind structure that all Dunmer have. It gave him a safe spot to return to and be sure of. That experience would have really changed his life.

He stood up and inhaled deeply. With a quick movement of the tip of his fingers he checked all four the heads were still in the sack, and the one he got before was still hanging from his belt. That one was special, because it was for Kodlak.

The Dunmer turned back and walked toward the exit. At last that nightmare was about to end: Kodlak apparently knew how to cure lycanthropy, and he would have done so. Both of them would have been free, and from there their path would have led to very different places but neither of them thought about that. The Elf meditated on that while he walked back to Whiterun. It was still early to dream about what came next.

* * *

For Kodlak, it was too late.

Narr grinned cruelly, watching the dying old man in the eyes. His smirk faded after a few moments, when he realized that the expression of the Harbinger of the Companions was not pain, but sadness. His warhammer fell to the ground, but the noise couldn't be heard in the chaos surrounding them.

Narr felt the grip of fear paralyzing him; he turned his gaze behind him, seeing the battle raging.

A Silver Hand slashed Athis with the silver sword; the Companion fell to the ground and rolled away, and lucky he did: his enemy couldn't reach him in time and finish him off, because Njada hit him between the shoulders with her shield. Narr guessed his mate died shortly after, but he didn't see. Farkas drew a wide sweep, cutting in half the two Silver Hands that were engaging him; a crimson pool appeared on the floor under the remains of the two Werewolf hunters.

'Retreat!'

Narr looked for the last time at Kodlak Whitemane lying on the ground, now dead. In the confusion nobody else saw he died, and his allies were retreating thinking they failed completely. The wounded Athis, but that was about it. The Silver Hands stood up, grabbed their swords and bolted out of the building like lightings. Narr crashed against Vilkas as he ran, stumbled, raised again and continued running. The plan had worked, or kind of did. The ones leaving with the fragments were safe, but the sacrifice for that would have been large and painful.

'Fall back! Fall back!'

An arrow hissed just beside Narr's ear and hit the Silver Hands in front of him. He tried to dodge the corpse rolling on the ground but couldn't, and tripped on the arm of his fallen fellow. From his right came a loud scream, and with that a gush of warm blood. The Silver Hand rolled on the ground as got through the door that way.

* * *

 _Horses… A lot. What are they doing here? Who left them here?_

Azrael just walked pass the stables, without making too much of that. He looked up at Dragonsreach and sighed deeply.

* * *

'Help me! Hel… Aah!'

'Die, you bastard!'

More blood. It dripped on the stairs and flew down. Narr almost slid on it, but continued running with all the strength he got left.

'Narr! Here…!'

The Silver Hand turned back, but only saw Aela the Huntress slashing his mate viciously with a dagger. Another one lied on the stair, strangely moving on the ground.

* * *

'I hope you'll find the city in proper order, Thane.'

'I do as well,' answered Azrael. 'By the way, what are all those horses doing at the stables?'

The guard just shrugged and pointed at the gate behind him.

'A group of men came here some time ago,' explained the soldier. 'They raced off into the city; they seemed to be in a hurry.'

The guard trembled for a second when he saw the Dunmer's glare.

'Something's… not quite right?' he asked.

'What weapons were those men carrying with them?' asked back the Elf, narrowing his eyes.

'Swords, shiny ones. Maybe made out of some rare material…'

'Did they wear a ring?' insisted the Dunmer without letting the soldier finish. 'Answer. That's an order.'

'Yes, they did. Silver ones, by the looks of it.'

Azrael shoved the guard aside and opened the city gates with a strong thrust.

* * *

Narr heard another arrow hissing near his shoulder. Someone cursed. He kept on running, breathing quickly, shoving aside anyone that stood in his way.

Another arrow, and again it missed him by so little it could have rightfully called definitely bad luck. For the one shooting, obviously, and maybe even for Narr, as strange as it may sound.

The Silver Hand ran down the stairs leading to the Plain District and went past the square. He thought he was free.

But he wasn't.

A man… no, an Elf, was walking towards him: he knew him very well, he was the latest recruit of the Companions and the latest to become a Werewolf. Incidentally, he looked exactly like the drawing of the so called "Dragonborn" he once saw in Dawnstar.

Narr stopped.

Azrael walked at a fast pace towards him. His red eyes were blazing with rage. A hellish flame seemed to be consuming the irises. He wore an elven set of armor painted in dark gray, a long bow on his back and a sharp and a steel sword hanging from his belt. On his shoulders fell down hair dark as crows feather, and his skin was of the same color of cinder. Last but not least, he was truly quite tall for a Dunmer.

Azrael grabbed two arrows from the quiver hanging between his shoulders and threw them towards Narr with astonishing precision. The projectile pierced both the hands of the Silver Hand, who howled with pain and fell backwards.

'You could have just let the others kill you,' whispered the Dunmer.

'It's too late anyway,' mumbled the Werewolf hunter, resigned to death. 'Two of our lads made it off with all your fragments of that axe of yours, Wuuthrad. You'll never get them back. If you want kill me, and satisfy your blood thirst.'

Azrael draw his blade and sank it in the gut of the Silver Hand, not aiming at vital organs. Narr screamed loudly as the Elf turned his blade inside his belly. Only after a while the Elf finally cut clear from the liver to the heart, tearing his flesh. As the screams of the man died, a cruel grimace twisted the Elf's lips.

'See you in Oblivion, then,' he hissed.


	10. His Honor He Reclaimed…

The Bannered Mare wasn't as full as the day that had gone past. The feel of the celebration had slowly faded away, and now the people were drawing conclusions.

'He's changed. Everyone has noticed.'

'He has indeed. Do you remember when he came back into the town just before Kodlak's funeral? He was angry. Gods, he as so angry. Vilkas accompanied him up, but never got too close to him. But yesterday? Completely different.'

'Yeah, exactly! When he got back from that tomb… Nothing! His face was stone.'

'Nothing we or his Shield-Siblings said could melt the frost in his eyes.'

'Nothing at all. And when they thanked him and said to him that he had gained glory and honor… Do you remember that sneer? It was pure derision. He transformed that moment into a hideous farce. Traditions long respected and he managed to make them look pathetic. I don't know how he did it.'

'Nothing like when he impaled that Silver Hand to the ground with arrows. That was… Almost two weeks ago. Still, what changed him like this must have been something really strong.'

'They say he met the ghost of Kodlak. Maybe he discovered something, or maybe he got traumatized. Maybe he was cursed, and now he has been released of his bonds.'

'Yeah, I've heard some say that he's going mad. That smile you see, it's just the smirk of a lunatic.'

'People say a lot of things, mind you.'

Gossip. Jon Battle-Born stared at the crackling flames of the fire in the center of the Bannered Mare and closed his eyes. He hated gossip. It was the opposite of art.

He had seen the Dragonborn coming back into town too, accompanied by Aela the Huntress. Very few people noticed that they were often exchanging glances, but the Huntress's ones were subservient while the Dunmer's ones were murderous glares. It was true that his face was an emotionless mask, but his anger had not yet vanished. Jon suspected it hadn't disappear, but had gained a precise focus. When a person focuses his or her anger, rage towards that person transforms into hatred and the rage for the world as a whole wanes a bit.

'Him? Harbinger of the Companions? He is just a whelp.'

'He was, until some weeks ago. He got up their ranks very fast, thanks to his abilities and his cunning. The Silver hand threw the Companions into disarray, and he just had to climb that ladder. You could have guessed he was one of the possibilities since he joined the Circle.'

'We've known that for a while, actually.'

'It doesn't change the fact that he now is Harbinger of the Companions. He is the one that saved them in this time of tragedy. With the old man dead, he pretty much had gotten the lead already. He gave orders to everyone, and none dared question his decision. It was tyrannical.'

'I don't believe that was the case. The Circle is very independent, they wouldn't have let one person taking all the decisions.'

Jon shook his head, and grabbed a piece of paper. A series of thoughts had quickly rushed through his mind. If Azrael had not done exactly what everyone was expecting, he could have altered true history and created a version of the story that everybody would have liked more. He grabbed the quill, put the ink down by his side and stopped above the sheet.

What was the thing that the Dunmer laughed about? He needed to put one fake thing alongside one true fact. That way he could keep it realistic, but also not true in any way. Truth is the worst enemy of a good story. He needed it to sound compelling, veridical, but not being as much. What was a thing that was not true, and one that could have been true instead? Those would have been the first words. He needed them to be strong.

Words rushed. He tried to write them down.

 _His honor he reclaimed…_

 _setting his foes aflame!_

Perfect. One untrue thing, since Azrael seemed to care less about honor than about the speed of the wind that blew the day before, and one probable thing: that he had used fire to kill whatever enemy he found. Some claimed it was true, even though what people claim is often absurd. He just needed it to be epic and compelling.

Jon began thinking again. He listened to the people talking.

'Do you think it was vengeance? He somehow tricked the Circle into giving him command?'

'The Companions are not used to give others orders. He was there when the situation was at its worst and he began giving them things to do. Things that looked and sounded right. How could someone refuse? He had grasped power, and he wasn't going to let go.'

'But the Circle gave him command!'

'It's not commanding. It's just an ancient costume.'

Ideas came, words flowed.

 _Neither vengeance nor retaliation, but justice for the assassination!_

 _No anger and no rage, just a costume of the old age!_

Since he had been at the Bard's College, Jon had learned to listen to himself. Thoughts are often the most creative thing an artist can find as inspiration. It's irrational motions and flows make that a never-ending source of material, innovation and ideas. The quill traced sweeps on the sheet, the ink carved those thoughts in black, to be remembered for years. He did not try to control his imagination, he just let it run freely, even when it went badly off track.

'No wonder,' he heard. 'Have you seen them upon retuning to the city? Him and the Huntress? They were covered in blood and their hair were crazy ruffled. They were dripping water as well, the rain was so strong. They could have stopped somewhere, but didn't. They just pressed forward.'

'I awonder what it's like up there North.'

'Very cold. The Sea of Ghosts is just a solid sheet of ice in that place, and the valleys are filled with thick blankets of snow even in the midst of Summer. It's impossible to walk there, unless you know how to move in the snow. There are also a lot of wild animals that roam the place. Sabre cats, bears, packs of wolves.'

'And how would you know that?'

'He's a traveler. He knows lots about Skyrim.'

That was of no interest to Jon. He stopped on the descriptions of the valleys thick with snow, thinking about a way to twist those with the glorious battle that took place. He allowed his imagination to run, mixing words and twisting the language to his own will. A few sentences began forming in his mind, and flowed to his hand. He began writing, and the phrase finished itself on its own accord while he was still writing.

 _As the wind screamed and howled, his enemies died and growled!_

 _As the tempest tore the sky, in the valley thundered his battle cry!_

Now rationally, he thought that it would have been a good idea to put the chorus in the mix one more time. He wrote those phrases again, thinking ahead to the new piece. He had spent enough time describing the context and building tension, he could have put some direct references to the battle and it would have been fine. He looked down on the scrap, beating a compatible rhythm with his feet.

'It's not like he hasn't brought back the Companions from their crisis, but in what way? He laughed at the ones that congratulated with him about his deeds, he showed disdain for his Shield-Siblings… What else? He cares nothing about honor and righteousness, only about his personal gain! He came back bloodied and with a hundred lives harvested. For what? Not honor, not glory. Bloodlust?'

'Will you shut your mouth? You don't know what you're talking about! You dare make such accusations towards him, but have you got the means to understand him? You don't, I'm sure of it.'

'Taking lives takes its toll. It's not like living in a farm for all life like we do. It might pay more, but you also give considerably more. No Companion kills light-heartily. Honor or no honor, just or not just, killing is not a good thing. They don't take that carelessly. They're not the first bloodthirsty bunch of sellswords that comes around. They've got their ethic in handling their business.'

'I'd never question the ethic of the Companions. I'm questioning the one of their leader, which it seems to me has gone a long way from the traditions. And how could he stick to tradition? He's a stranger, an Elf!'

'Now, now, stop that. You don't know him.'

Again, Jon couldn't care less about what other people thought of Azrael. However, that talk of honor, ethic, fame and bringing something back to light was giving him ideas. He started writing the new verses, the first after the chorus.

 _For fame and for glory, he left his enemies gory!_

 _For honor and righteousness, he brought back the ancient brightness!_

He now needed to get in the thick of the battle. He needed some verses with strong references to blood, red, violence and other things that would describe where and in what way honor had been taken back. He loved war ballads. The words just came right up, no need to wait for any further inspiration.

 _With gloves soaked in blood, and boots drenched in mud!_

 _With foreheads dripping sweat, nothing was any longer a threat!_

Cryptic, descriptive. That was exactly what he needed. He wrote the chorus again, it just sounded good right there. He looked at the sheet, mildly satisfied with himself. He thought more, but nothing really came to mind. He let go of the piece of paper, and put his elbows on the knees, thinking.

'And what about that axe he was carrying? Wuuthrad. That was huge. I haven't seen such a fine weapon in ages! They say Eorlund himself re-forged that blade out of the scraps and fragments that the Companions had gathered.'

'Do you think that he used it to fight?'

'No, probably not. In the barracks we always discuss about his clear preference for swords wieldable in one hand, alongside his beloved bow and arrow. I don't think I've never seen him using a heavy weapon. That's smart, with the frame he's got. He's strong, but very nimble and swift. He's not a brute that can swing a battleaxe around like its nothing.'

'He would have the strength to do it, though.'

'Most certainly. He just likes to be very swift and quick. Have you ever seen him fight? He is as fast as a lighting. Flash, spray of blood, flash, another spray of blood and a new corpse. He just dashes from idiot to idiot and wrecks the poor sods without them noticing.'

'I would have liked seeing him swing that thing, angry as he was last times.'

Jon found the words. Not all of them, but he trusted his intuition.

 _As Wuuthrad swept with ire, his foes' time was dire!_

But then, all of a sudden, his intuition ran dry. He left a single drop of ink on the beginning of the next sentence, and the words just did not come. He pressed harder on the paper, but nothing came of it. He cursed weakly, clenching his teeth, but to no avail. He raised his head, sighed, looked at the sheet again. Nothing came of it. He breathed deeply, and returned looking at the fire. The blazes raised high, the smoke screen which floated beneath the ceiling was getting thicker.

His gaze got lost in the flames, and started moving randomly. They stumbled on Olfina, who was sitting with her friend and slowly sipping from a mug. Jon looked at her fair hair, and found himself sighing again. He moved his gaze away, fearful of meeting her eyes. He knew at once who the song he was composing would have been dedicated to. A song about Azrael, the Harbinger of the Companions, dedicated to Olfina, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. That surely sounded like something serious.

Azrael… Azrael, the Harbinger, the Dark Elf… Dragonborn.

The verses came to mind. He wrote them down.

 _As his Thu'um cracked the earth…_

But then he stopped. His intuition blocked at half verse. He could not go forward, the few things that came to mind were rational, and did not fit the emotional weight of the song as a whole.

'I wonder where he is now.'

'Probably celebrating somewhere, given he…'

The unimaginable happened. The door of the inn opened wide, brusquely. A strong gust of wind blew inside, making the fire crackle louder for a moment and dispersing the smoke. Hulda, who was resting on the counter talking, peaked out and looked. All the other guests gazed at the door, and as soon as they did puzzled expressions appeared on their faces. Jon heard them whisper, but did not pay any attention to them. He was quite surprised himself.

Through the door walked Aela the Huntress, wet with rain and covered by a long cloak and hood. Behind her came a dark figure, who was unmistakably Azrael. His broad shoulders, exceptional height and dark elven armor were quite recognizable around the city. He wore a cloak and a hood as well, and he was drenched all the same. Thick locks of raven-black hair fell down on his chest. There was no trace of the anger that had distinguished him in the past weeks, just as the people were saying. His face was glacial, cold as the northern winds and utterly impassive. Jon looked at him, and as soon as he did, words came anew. Who would have thought that a walking shadow would have been the source for such incredible inspiration?

… _A legend was given birth!_

He wrote those subtly, hoping no one would notice him. But who would have? All eyes were pointed towards the two warriors that just walked in the inn. Azrael quickly dispatched Hulda with a plain gesture, and pointed Aela to an empty bench, far from any other person in there.

Jon read the song once again.

 _His honor he reclaimed, setting his foes aflame!_

 _Neither vengeance nor retaliation, but justice for the assassination!_

 _No anger and no rage, just a costume of the old age!_

 _As the wind screamed and howled, his enemies died and growled!_

 _As the tempest tore the sky, in the valley thundered his battle cry!_

 _His honor he reclaimed, setting his foes aflame!_

 _For fame and for glory, he left his enemies gory!_

 _For honor and righteousness, he brought back the ancient brightness!_

 _With gloves soaked in blood, and boots drenched in mud!_

 _With foreheads dripping sweat, nothing was any longer a threat!_

 _His honor he reclaimed, setting his foes aflame!_

 _As Wuuthrad swept with ire, his foes' time was dire!_

 _As his Thu'um cracked the earth, a legend was given birth!_

 _His honor he reclaimed, setting his foes aflame!_

Now he was satisfied.

He knew not that one day, a day far from that one, he would have sang that song in that same tavern. That day, Hulda would have been among the guests, and Ysolda would have been in her place. Jon himself would have been in the place of Mikael, with Olfina at his side and engaged to him. All that thanks to Azrael.


	11. The Howl of the Wind

No one learned what Aela and Azrael told each other. No one on Nirn knows, except for the two of them.

It was a rainy night; they entered the Bannered Mare drenched and their hoods and cloaks were dripping water on the floor, their faces cool as the winter gales. They sat, silently, while the Dunmer shot lighting straight from his eyes at anyone who dared to so much as eye them. After a while, they seemed to calm down a bit. Azrael asked for two mugs of mead without uttering a word more than what was needed and sat again on the bench side by side with the Huntress.

The Harbinger of the Companions awaited for the two drinks to arrive and only once Hulda had gone he started talking.

'Time to explain,' he said. It sounded more like and order than anything else.

'You know what this is about. And I already told you that you seem too smart to me to live long!'

'Don't try to fool me.'

'I'm not trying to,' she complained, annoyed. 'I'm just saying what I think. You know exactly what this is about, and yet you ask me! Why?'

'Because I want to hear how you explain it, in what twisted way you like the idea of keeping the cursed blood of the Beast in your veins,' answered the Dunmer cooly.

It was about Midnight, and they had been fighting over that single point for all the evening, and the situation never changed: Aela felt uneasy answering the Elf's questions, and he willingly kept on asking, as if he liked watch her suffer.

 _This is the true taste of vengeance…_ thought the Dunmer.

'It would take forever to explain,' she said.

'Dawn's a long way off. And I've got a great share of patience. Although... you were able to cut away a lot of it.'

'Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?'

'I'm the one asking the questions.'

'Oh, really? To be precise I was the one starting.'

'I asked you why you wouldn't want to come with your Shield-Brothers to Ysgramor's Tomb to cure yourself of that curse, like everyone else has.'

'But I was the one asking you if you wanted become one of the pack!' she hissed. She wanted to cry, but the other guests in the tavern could not be allowed to hear them, or else something disastrous could have happened.

'Fine, let's say you have a point,' admitted the Dunmer. 'In which case, let me tell you a story: sit comfortably, it will be a long one.'

Aela obeyed and crossed her legs. She would have finally got her answer. However she would have been quite surprised when Azrael started telling that story.

'You know... there was once a Dunmer, like me, and very similar to me: he had black hair just like me for instance. His were short though, because he cut them every week with a knife, the same knife he used for everything else where he lived; he shaved himself twice a week, and thus didn't have even a shade of beard. A common thing among my kind in the region where he lived. This Elf was the orphan of two fighters, his father a swordsman and his mother a sorceress, both killed in an uprising in Blacklight.'

The last thing Aela would have expected was the story of one of his kind. Dark Elves were scattered all across Tamriel, and everyone had a sad story to tell, but Azrael didn't need to tell of others for a sad story, he had his own. His point exactly, but she didn't know.

'Anyway,' he continued, 'he remained alone, and learned to live on his own. Life didn't exactly go easy on him, and with time he developed a great survival instinct, and, to his surprise, maintained the ability to learn new thing very quickly. He grew suspicious, distant. Everybody who remembered his childhood told me that even as a kid he was silent and sharp. After some time he encountered two other little Dunmer brothers, a male and a female, and decided to live with them. I knew these friends of his very well, and I could tell you long stories about them, but that's not the point. After a short time they found an empty property and settled in a small house at the edge of the fields. They started tending to those crops, and as they grew up they became farmers. They were lucky. Most orphans die in times like these. They grew up together, helping each other and living a life they all desired. My friend had a lot of very good memories of those moments when I met him.'

'And how did you meet this… "Friend" of yours?'

'Since we were very young. We were reunited when we arrived in Skyrim. Then we got captured by an Imperial patrol and were brought to Helgen. They executed him and I was saved by that Dragon, remember?'

'I remember. Tell me about his time in the farm.'

Azrael took a deep breath.

'Well, after some time his male fellow died, and he remained alone with his other mate, the female. Those were hard times. He remembered moments when the two of them sat for hours, sad and uncertain about what could come next. They did their best, but it going to get any easier. Those who knew him told me that during that period he became even more shadowy. He avoid contact with most people, except for his friend. Unfortunately, she died shortly after, and soon my friend ended up alone. He made a living on his own for three long years. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he found a little orphan on the road: a kid, a girl, maybe one or two years old at maximum. He took her with him, and treated her like his own daughter.'

The Dunmer's gaze got lost in the crackling fire, but he didn't stop talking. Aela never saw that gaze from him, never even suspected he had part of himself that didn't live in the moment. She had a problem with him: she knew only what Azrael had chosen to reveal her, and that wasn't much. It didn't represent what the Elf really was.

'They went of for sixteen years, living in the ashlands outside Blacklight. That girl made him forget all the pain, helped him get past the death of his two friends and go on. It was a new life, with a new mission and someone new to care for. One day a group of hired assassins burned down their house and kidnapped the girl, which had become a young woman by the time. It was then I met this person again: we escaped Morrowind together, pursued by those assassins, and we ultimately arrived in Skyrim.'

Aela frowned her forehead, incapable to understand where the Dragonborn was going with all that.

'He talked to me for the whole way. About his friends, his daughter, his farm… All of it. He was so afraid that the thugs had taken and killed her, but he had no choice. He could only escape, nothing could have saved her. From that moment, he told me, he had one fear. From the moment his friends died, he had come to fear and hate death more than anything, but while traveling and talking he realized that it wasn't death that bothered him, but the fear that someday it might have been his turn to steal someone's life. He was afraid of killing.'

Aela snorted, irritated by that pointless tale.

'What does any of that have to do with us? With you and me?'

'He kept a Beast inside him,' Azrael calmly replied. 'That is what is has to do with you and me. He had a Beast within him and he was afraid it might, someday, wake up.'

'And what of it? What matters, if he's dead?'

Azrael narrowed his eyes and looked at her for a long time, his irises blazing with a hellish red light; that single glance burned directly through Aela's soul like a flame melting wax, pierced her like the spear of the hunter pierces the prey.

'Humans…' he whispered, closing his eyes and shaking his head. 'You're like children that never grow up, because you don't have the time to nor the will to. That Elf was me. The one you see sitting beside you. When I escaped Helgen with my life, I thought I was given a chance to start anew. Live a life free of disdain, cold calculation, cynicism… You proved me wrong. I never changed, I had only convinced myself that I had. I am still me, nothing in the world will change that. I don't want a life of honor, integrity, fairness, justice… No, I'm happy as I am. You showed me. The thing I feared the most was inanity, being unable to think. And you made that fear real. I feared the Beast inside of me could wake. Well, I don't know how, but you, Aela… you managed.'

She did. She felt crushed under a boulder of nameless feelings that Azrael would have simply categorized as regret and guilt. Aela knew those names but never knew their meaning, until that moment. For her everything was clear and sure, everything she did was good, there was no doubt about it. As sure as it is that a drop of water falls to the ground and does not raise in the sky, she was about what she did. No guilt, no regret. Those were for the weak.

But that was not exactly the way it was. Everything Azrael had showed her, it was lie. The little things, the sharp tone in his answers, the coolness he showed when something annoyed him. Those were the little things he couldn't suppress of himself. She should have known, or so she thought. She felt crushed, and knew at once she was foolishly falling for him.

'I'm…' she mumbled, confused about what she was saying. 'I'm sorry.'

To Aela's surprise, Azrael laughed. Even that proved devastating for her. That laughter was dark, mocking and sad at the same time, a mixture of power and deep understanding that cracked her spirit even further.

'I thought I'd never hear those words coming out of your mouth,' he whispered.

'Me neither,' she replied.

Even if someone overheard their conversation by chance or intentionally eavesdropped on them, that person couldn't understand much. Azrael's tale seemed a normal one, without any particular significance or meaning; to a Man or a Mer, but not to a Wolf.

'I kept a sleeping beast inside of me my whole life,' said the Elf, in a whisper. 'It almost awoke when I had to kill for the first time, I came to the Companions because I hoped you could help me put it asleep forever. And instead of helping me… you waked it. In your pride and blindness you laid a curse upon me without even asking.'

'But you accepted,' Aela reminded him, but that was her last line of defense.

'Like I had a choice…'

Those few sarcastic words tore even that last defense apart. They stayed silent for a long time, enough for Hulda to notice it. She looked at them, but Azrael shook his head slowly, and so she turned away. There was a lot more to be said, they both felt that in the very air surrounding them, but their tongues where stuck. They needed a moment to think, maybe breathe. Azrael surely understood that more than Aela did.

'Come,' he thus said, standing up. 'Let's go outside and have a walk.'

* * *

Secunda was already high above the plains and Masser was raising against the horizon. The moonlight shone bright in the cloudless sky and dyed the land with a vague blue shade. The wind made the grass rustle, and the whole plain outside Whiterun looked untouched, except for one thing. In the grass. There was a long trail… no, two trails, very close, that led from the stables to the open plain. It was rather strange at that point in the night, because an animal wouldn't tread that close to the buildings.

Let's follow the trail then: it led in the open, to the West for the most part. It went on for quite a bit, and then stopped when the grass ended and rocks took over. No traces to follow, but from there you could see huge rocks that bent towards the plain. On one of them sat two figures, shining darkly in the moonlight.

It was quite funny: if one saw them he would have immediately thought they were two men, but they were not. On that large stone sat an Elf and a Wolf. No humans to be seen in a mile.

'I get you're… "interested" in me, are you not?' said the Elf.

'You always were too smart for my taste,' said the Wolf, grinning. 'But now I like that. Yeah, I am.'

'And what of Skjor, then? Ready to betray his memory? For a "whelp" like me?'

'We were close, I know, but he died. He hunts with our master in the Hunting Grounds, feeling eternally the thrill of the Chase. But now… I might choose something different. Know why?'

'No, but I just might have got a hint.'

'Say it.'

'No.'

'I love you.'

We could stop describing that silence for ages, but you can imagine that. The Dunmer in particular felt that weight and he endured it, ice on his face, wonder in his heart.

 _I don't feel a damn thing…_ he realized. _I don't even know if that's for the better of for the worse_ _. She was the one betraying me, not Skjor. She crushed my sanity for her own pride. How am I supposed to feel the same thing? And yet… Not that I don't feel anything, it's just that I don't succumb to it. Maybe. Or maybe the path I chose stripped me of all emotions, and for good this time. I've been a sensitive one, but this? That is not for me to judge, or is not the right time. Either way…_

'Tough luck…' he said, glacial.

'I know,' she said. 'That doesn't take your intelligence to understand. And so we come to the conclusion of this whole conversation, and return to where we started.'

'What a surprise.'

'I don't want your cure for the thing you call a curse. I'm used to live with that. And in the end I'll return to the only person who accepted me as what I was.'

'That's your fault. Entirely yours,' replied the Elf.

'Because before you turned into a Werewolf you liked me? What could have been done? Nothing. What's done is done, and time has swapped our roles: now I'm the one desiring you and you the one refusing.'

'Nothing denying that. At least I had the decency not to ask.'

'It's precisely one of the things I like about you. We're like ice and fire, utter opposites, but we fit together as such. Nothing denying that too.'

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Azrael saw a woman with the eyes of a wolverine and bronze hair. Her skin was still smooth and untouched except for the few scars. Her body was strong and agile. In those wolfish eyes shined a strange light: hope, regret, plea, fear, and other nameless things. She was just that: he understood her perfectly, nothing of her could hide from him.

Aela saw an Elf with eyes burning like fires and raven-black hair. His whole body was shaped perfectly for his people, with strong and prominent muscles. His ash-colored skin shined of a mysterious bright in the moonlight. She tried to imagine his as he described himself in his tale: shaved, with short hair, possibly without the long scar that disfigured his face, going from the right ear to the mouth, and had difficulties doing so. His eyes were blazed with resolve, determination, arrogance and strength alike, but deep inside them there was… a cold sea: calm, tranquility, patience. And it was not superstition, just consciousness and understanding. Everything could have happened to him, but nothing would have ever broken him. Death treaded only where his gaze rested.

He was invincible, because he wouldn't have accepted defeat. He was immortal because he wouldn't have accepted death. No other ways to say it: He was an Assassin.

Aela, in that moment, saw the Assassin.

'If you're fire, I extinguished you,' said Azrael.

'And if you're ice, you froze me solid. And for good.'

'So damn hard I can't even reason with you…' he whispered. 'You really want to remain a Beast?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'Then you will remain a monster for your entire life, understanding neither our world nor the wolves' one. Do you realize you'll be an outcast in both, not part of either? You're choosing to be alone.'

'You too are alone.'

Azrael grinned. 'But that was my choice.'

The Elf sighed deeply and watched the horizon. Dawn was still some way off, but the first light already peaked out behind the mountains. The wind stopped blowing strong as before, and the air was slowly warming. The two of them sat still, looking at the weak rays of the sun.

'Where will you go next?' asked the Huntress.

'I'm off to Ivarstead this very morning. I'll walk there. It'll take me two or three days at most. You?'

'There's troubles in Haafingar, I'll go and see to that.'

'Always the same old things…'

'Yeah, precisely. They'll keep me entertained until my time comes.'

'Really? Took you for someone who lived only the here and now,' observed the Elf.

'I did. Before this night.'

Azrael stood up and looked to the West. He felt someone calling for him. He had began to hear the whispers of the Shadow, reminding him of his true fate.

'Azrael…'

The Dunmer turned towards Aela, quite surprised: It was the first absolute time she called him by name.

'Yes?'

'What is the answer to all of this?'

'The more interesting thing is actually the question itself.'

'Do you have a clue?'

'Perhaps. You?'

'I don't. But maybe… maybe it's just the creaking of the trees.'

'Or perhaps the howl of the wind.'


	12. The Way of the Voice

All beings on Nirn fight without end for their lives. If that's already gone, at least their salvation. It's how things are and how they'll forever be. If something does otherwise, then there's got to be something wrong.

Sometimes though, those wrong entities are actually so particular that they become interesting. Humans and Elves can be distinguished from animals and the other non-sentient or semi-sentient creatures that inhabit Mundus only for their being strangely, but delightfully, wrong. They also struggle, but when the struggle for survival gets overcome, another fight is ahead. A fight for meaning, in all the various forms in which that can develop.

Whether you believe in Fate or not, you can't deny that the meaning of our actions is something very important to all of us. Azrael, for instance, didn't believe in Fate. Nobody ever told him stories when he was young, and he had heard his first when he was around fifteen. He disliked it. He found inconsistent the idea of the "it will be so". Without direct intervention, history never runs its course.

He did believe in one thing though, and desired it: at the end of his life he wanted to be the best of what he could be, fully fulfill his dreams and die knowing how it feels to be at the real end of the line.

Unfortunately, that attitude led him to a false way, to the way of honor and glory on which the Companions went down. But that was not his destiny: righteousness, fame and nobility are all fantasies, comforting illusions behind which beings afraid of the truth take hiding. Far from the truth. The cruel and merciless truth.

For Azrael it had been different: he knew neither his fate nor his true aspiration, and he was hanging on the edge of a blade, uncertain about what direction to take. The answer was difficult, yet childishly simple: both his Fate and his aspiration were united in one thing. Knowledge and power. It doesn't really matter how you look at it. You could either say it was Fate or that he just achieved his deepest dreams.

Either way, he was on the right track. Azrael knew that no one is innocent, that guilt is divided in different degrees of blurred and subjective bounds; he knew that he was not the only killer in the world, he liked silence, understood that all beings are chained in a gigantic circle of creation, life and destruction, he relaxed while under the cover of darkness, knew that life is just a thread of existence off which is easy to fall. Sometimes too easy.

Deep inside the Assassin was sleeping, as he had been doing since the moment of his rebirth. And it was no coincidence he didn't believe in Fate, because he was a part of it.

The Assassin is the Left Hand of Fate.

Azrael's gift was silence. Where he treaded, complete stillness came, as his enemies fell to the ground. Bleeding, convulsing, dying. Where Fate walks, annihilation follows. Where the Assassin rests his gaze, Death comes.

He is about to encounter new friends. Some that give him some insight in his true self. To be precise, he was making the climb that would have brought him to High Hrothgar; he was reading the last of the ten Emblems, which went like this:

Emblem X

The Voice is worship;

Follow the Inner path;

Speak only in True Need.

The Dunmer raised an eyebrow and stood up.

The wind was icy and it was snowing heavily. The chill seemed to freeze the very bones of the Dark Elf. All he could do was lower the hood further down on his forehead and press the cloak on his shoulders. The snow did not even melt, it just turned to ice and stayed solid.

Azrael was dying of thirst, but he could not drink on the climb because the water in his flask had turned to ice and the bottle itself burst because of it. Also, the little food he brought was cold as frost and his legs were rigid because of the icy wind. He tried to fix all of those things with streams of magic fire, but the snow had some kind of magic in it and extinguished even the magic flames he conjured, which truly surprised him.

The climb had been hard because of this and other things, like fighting the Wraiths along the way. After trying to fuse them with the couple of simple flame spells he knew he had resigned to better known methods, like sword and arrows.

When he finally got sight of the fortress he thanked Azura from the bottom of his heart.

 _The Voice is Worship, follow the Inner path, speak only in True Need…_

He started to meditate on the etchings to forget the cold, like the other two people he found on the way were doing. He understood little about the Nord's history, but in a way his Dragon Blood helped him understand the inscriptions. Interestingly enough, he hoped that the Dragons would have triumphed since the emblems about the war had began. He didn't understand why at first, but when he realized that he was reading about a battle between his brethren and humans, he had made out why. Simply put, Dragons were his siblings, and he empathized with them. Better than any human in that tale.

The Dunmer reached the forked stairway that led up to the doors of the fortress; in the middle there was a large chest.

 _That must be the one._

Azrael undid the knot that held Klimmek's sack and tried to open the offering chest, which took a few tries because of the ice coat that covered it whole. He managed to open it and place the supplies inside, frowning his forehead for a second.

 _Damn it, the sack is cold as ice,_ he thought, hoping nothing was damaged.

He looked up and wondered which door he should have chosen to enter. They seemed exactly the same, it was only a matter of taste.

 _Left then…_ he decided. _I always liked it more._

The stairs were covered in frost and Azrael had to use his sword to remain firm on his feet. He finally got to the massive gate and pushed it slowly, almost with reverence. The inside proved a lot more comfortable that what you might have expected. Once he closed the screeching door, warm air began to melt the snow that froze on him, and he could finally raise his gaze again without getting blinded by the snow. The walls of the corridor where he was were made of dark rock, and illumined by a series of torches hanging on them. The Elf could not believe what he saw and felt.

 _Warm air, fires… Those are the things I like._

He stepped slowly in that unknown place, treading carefully. There was no one in sight, but from what he heard of the Greybeards he might have expected something of that such. Even in that place, he kept his eyes peeled and his ears well opened. Usually, when there was no one in sight, a lot of people were actually in the same room, trying to stab him in the back. Not in that case, but some instincts never die.

 _No wondering why they keep to themselves. This place is so calm you could get numbed in such tranquility. In the end, why bother about all the things that happen down this mountain, if one should speak only in True Need?_

Azrael knew that feeling and did not try to evade his thoughts, but remained on guard. The last time he felt similar emotions was before the doors of Jorrvaskr, and the future proved that he made the wrong choice. But now he knew, and would have never made that mistake again. Not that he wouldn't have made any mistake from there on, but not the same one for sure.

He arrived to a hall; the ceiling was higher than in the corridor and there was more light, but other than that it wasn't all that different. The walls as well as the floor were made of dark stone, like everything inside there. There were two openings in the ceiling, and the sunlight got through them illuminating the whole hallway without the need of other lights.

Azrael heard soft footsteps, and looked in the direction they came from: down a set of stairs came an old Nord in a long grey tunic and hood with runic symbol embroidered on them. He also had a long beard of the same color.

 _Well… The name's fitting._

The ice on the Dunmer's cloak and hood had turned into cold water. He was soaked, but it was still an improvement. He now felt warmer as well. He was hungry and thirsty, but the mere curiosity made him forget all those things. His whole mind was focused on the old human walking towards him.

'So…' began the old Nord. His voice was faint, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time. 'A Dragonborn appears, at this moment, in the turning of the age.'

Azrael bowed slightly, and he made it out of real respect, not meaningless politeness.

'I'm answering your summon,' the Dunmer said.

'We will see if you truly have the gift,' answered the old Nord. 'Let us taste of your voice.'

The Dark Elf raised an eyebrow. These people went to the point really quickly, as they should have: "Speak only in true need", it was written. Azrael stepped back a bit.

'Shout at us,' insisted the old Nord, maybe thinking that he was hesitating. 'Let us taste of your voice.'

The Dunmer breathed deeply and narrowed his eyes. Even as the sound of the Word echoed in his mind an ancient power began flowing in his veins.

'Fus…'

A wave of pure energy erupted from his mouth and gushed through the air, taking the shape of a vague blue circle that disappeared once the force of the Word had run out. An urn on the side got blown away and cracked against the wall, the banners above them flapped, and the old Nord stepped back, like he had been hit by a strong gust of wind.

'Dragonborn…' he whispered, respectfully. 'It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar.'

The Greybeard raised his head and stood straight.

'I am Master Arngeir, I speak for the Greybeards,' he introduced himself.

 _I got the feeling I don't need to reply,_ though the Dunmer, and rightly so, for the Nord continued without letting him say a thing.

'Now, tell me, Dragonborn… Why have you come here?'

Azrael narrowed his eyes, failing to understand the meaning and the aim of the question. He took off his hood while thinking of something that didn't sound stupid. He had come there seeking guidance, following his ambitions… There were many things that had motivated him, but needed one sentence to summarize them.

'I want to find out what it means to be Dragonborn.'

'We are here to guide you on that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before.'

 _Yeah, that guard did mention Tiber Septim being a Dragonborn,_ the Dunmer recalled.

'You mean I'm not the only Dragonborn?' he asked, thinking it would have been a good method to obtain more information.

'You're not the first,' said Arngeir. 'There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortal kind. Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age, that is not ours to know. You are the only one that has been revealed thus far. That is all I can say.'

 _I got so used being a stranger that this has no effect on me. Being different from anyone else is just a thing that doesn't impress me, not anymore,_ Azrael realized. _The strange thing is that I am proud of it._

'In that case, I'm ready to learn,' declared the Dunmer.

'You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift,' continued the Greybeard, always with his faint and formal tone.

* * *

That day Azrael got often lost in pointless reasoning, but couldn't help it. He thought about the two new Words he learned and kept thinking still. What impressed him most was that the comprehension that those "masters of the voice" had gained regarding Shouts was so incredibly tiny when compared to the one of a single Dragon.

" _Ro", for instance. "Balance", they translated it, and they gave that sound a similar meaning. But it's so much more than that: It's the very concept of something in such perfect equilibrium that when combined with another kind of power, it becomes unstoppable._

It was difficult even to him to understand the meaning of the Words of Power because he didn't know the Dragon Tongue. He couldn't think using those words. He was bonded by the limited meanings of the common language. Time and time again he realized he didn't actually know how to talk about his gift. Or was it a curse? Even Arngeir had said it had been a matter of debate since the very beginning.

Happy or not about having the blood of a Dragon, Azrael was satisfied by the discovery he made: the Greybeards followed a life of meditation, trying to achieve balance between their inner and outer selves. That was a thing the Dunmer admired, and did so rationally.

Every time he thought about them he felt anxious, for when he joined the Companions he felt similarly. There is quite the distance between the Greybeards and the Companions, between men of mind and spirit against beasts that call themselves humans. He couldn't help but to think of Aela, not wondering what was she doing and if she was well though, but feeling a burning sting of rage down his throat.

That was the past at that point. Five days before it had all ended, and thankfully it was already something really far away. He couldn't name the feelings that rushed through his mind, the thoughts that raced in between his other emotions.

Azrael came down another set of stairs and saw the Fourth Emblem written on the stone. He went closer, and read the etching again.

Emblem IV

Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man;

Together they taught Men to use the Voice;

Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue

 _I could be really stupid, or just have bad memory…_ thought the Dark Elf, _but I'm quite sure Arngeir mentioned this Paarthurnax as their leader. He said he lives alone on the top of the mountain and rarely sees them…_ he remembered. _That would not surprise me, if he is a Dragon as much as I suspect._

Despite his deep-rooted hatred for the Huntress, one thing she had said was so true it would have been Azrael's trademark for all time: The Dunmer's cunning was incredible, and it would have often helped him, while some other times led him to unending trouble. For some, a mind of that sharpness is a danger more than anything, and so they try to eliminate it.

Meanwhile, the Dark Elf looked down a ravine, and estimated the height. Then looked at the stone on the other side, and nodded. He took a deep breath and sneered: he just felt like doing something stupid.

'Wuld…'

His feet lost contact with the ground as he dashed above the gorge. His cloak flapped so strongly it almost flew away, his hood fell on his shoulders and his hair went flying.

When the force dispersed itself he stopped on the rock beside the ravine, saw the gorge behind him and grinned at it. He had long waited a moment like this, when he would have been able to smile mockingly again. Not for hatred or rage, but for genuine pleasure. After being turned into a Werewolf he thought he would have never been able to do that again.

It was quite simple, really: he was just in peace with himself once again.


	13. On the Road

'Ah, good to see you. How did that delivery go?'

'It all went well. I delivered the supplies to High Hrothgar just fine.'

'Quite a climb, wasn't it?' grinned the man. 'Anyway, much appreciated. Here,' he continued, taking a purse out of his pocket. 'Take this for your troubles.'

Azrael accepted the prize with a slight nod.

'Thanks, Klimmek.'

'Thanks to you again for the legwork.'

The Dunmer turned back and went towards the inn, opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Both Bassianus and Wilhelm raised their head as he entered, but when they saw it was the Elf they immediately got closer to him. Lynly dropped the lute and followed them. A couple of travelers looked at the gathering, immediately following the innkeeper and joined the small circle around the Dunmer.

'So?' asked Wilhelm. 'Did you enter High Hrothgar?'

'I did,' answered Azrael, pointing at a chair. The innkeeper nodded, and the Elf fell in it like his legs had vanished. The people around him were obviously waiting for him to talk, but Azrael stayed silent. He stared ahead of him, with a very vague and detached gaze; his eyes were flickering strangely, like he was thinking very intensely.

'And what was it like? What kind of people are the Greybeards?' pressed Bassianus.

'It's all very strange, very… separated from this world,' sighed the Dunmer, taking his hood off his head and gathering his raven-black hair, now turning his attention to the Nord. 'I think that for you the cold on the way would not be so much of a problem as it was for myself, but trust me: the air is freezing up there.'

Wilhelm had ran toward the counter in the meantime and poured some mead in a mug; he brought the tankard to the Dark Elf, who took it with a wave and drained it with a single draught.

'Ah…' he sighed. 'Thanks Wilhelm, I feel much better now.'

'Any trouble on the way?'

'Aside from the bears that tried to murder me, the Ice Wraiths that sought to freeze me constantly and the Frost Troll that plunged on me half way through I didn't run into any problem whatsoever.'

'A Frost Troll?'

'Yeah, good thing I saw him in the blizzard. Well, I heard him to be fair. You know… That moan that all Trolls do when they sense their next meal.'

'And how did you get rid of him?'

'An arrow in the collarbone, another in between the eyes and then a firm stab into the skull. That does the job every time.'

'But what about the Greybeards?' insisted Lynly.

'Not now…' the Dragonborn answered. 'One day I'll tell you all. One day, just not today. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest a bit. I'll need to be going for dawn, at maximum.'

Lynly went back to the chair where she left her lute, grabbed the instrument and started playing something, more for self-entertainment than anything else. Bassianus stood up and went out of the tavern, leaving Wilhelm alone with the Dunmer. A strange expression of delusion mixed with interest was painted on everyone's face.

'Now…' said the Elf to the innkeeper. 'I need to remain here for the night, and possibly have something to eat as well. Is that a problem in any way?'

'Not at all. My rooms are mostly free, and I have a good supply of food for some stew and soup.'

'Fine. How much do I owe you?'

'No… Nothing!' stammered Wilhelm. He said it sincerely, but realized that the dark and glacial voice of the Dragonborn terrorized him for a second, like that question was a threat. 'Nothing, really! You took care of Wyndelius for us, and—'

'I'll ask again,' Azrael interrupted him. 'How much do I owe you?'

The innkeeper surrendered, counted briefly on his fingers and then murmured: 'Fifty Septims.'

'Good,' said the Elf, pulling Klimmek's purse out of his pocket and counting the coins. 'You don't sound greedy if you tell someone the cost of the things they eat and drink, you know?'

Wilhelm swallowed and turned his head away. When Azrael's cunning got mixed with his disarming and sometimes tactless sincerity, the vast majority of the conversations became a real nuisance for the person he was talking to. Sometimes, like in this case, the comment hit a nerve. Some other times straight up sparked the ire of the unfortunate individual who ended between the sharp claws of the Dunmer's words.

'Wilhelm,' Azrael called out. 'Wait, I need to know something.'

'Yes?'

'How long will it take me to get to Windhelm?'.

'You're not returning to Whiterun?' asked back the innkeeper.

'No, I'm not. The storm raging above the plains outside looks dangerous. I'll go to Windhelm, stop there and then reach Ustengrav passing through Dawnstar.'

'Ustengrav? Where might that be?'

'In the swamps North of Morthal.'

'That's quite the journey…' Wilhelm observed.

'That's precisely why I'm asking you to tell me how long it takes to get from here to Windhelm.'

'One day. One and a half at most?'

'One day?' laughed the Dunmer. His laughter came from the heart, and yet it sounded glacial and dark like his very soul itself was made of shadow and ice. We can't deny that this time the situation was somewhat pathetic. 'It took me three days to get here from Whiterun, so it's downright impossible to walk the same distance in half the time.'

'You mean… you came here by foot? You don't have a horse?' asked Wilhelm, astonished.

'No, I don't. And still you haven't answered my question.'

'Four, five days maybe?'

'Can't be. It would take five days to a granny with the pace of a mudcrab.'

'Well… I suppose that if it took you three days from Whiterun it shouldn't take more to reach Windhelm. If you walk fast, that is.'

'Hm… That sounds about right.'

 _Could have just remained silent. I came to the same conclusions, with the only difference it took me a couple of seconds to figure it out…_ thought the Elf.

Despite all, his deep disdain for humankind had not yet vanished. He respected some humans, but did so as single individuals, and they were far too little to save the reputation of their whole race.

Just thinking that he had to return to Windhelm again, where all those "pathetic humans" yelled at him all kinds of insults, filled him with annoyance. Inside the walls of that city insults flew like nobody's business. "Wretched Grey-skin" was common, but the individuals that had a bit of fantasy created even more interesting affronts, like that drunk guy that came screaming in the Grey Quarter yelling: "Cinder balls", or the one that left that piece of graffiti of the wall: "Dumb-Mer, go home!"

The list went on and on.

It wouldn't have been that advisable to say such things to Azrael, since he could beat an average man to a pulp within barely a glimpse. He had his own plans to ease the aggression against his kind in that city, but most of them were too dangerous, or simply not advisable. He would have liked to do something, but outside of resolving little quarrels there was little he could do.

* * *

Almost three days after he was still finding some diversion in thinking of insane ways to free his kin from the violence in Windhelm, but didn't really find something worth while. Night was falling for the second time since he left Ivarstead, but he had no intention to camp again. He preferred to walk a bit faster and until late rather than sleeping in the open again. The strange, somewhat droughty environment of the volcanic tundra was disappearing under a thin cover of soft snow as he proceeded North. The Dark Elf felt the air getting colder and colder as the breeze went from cool to glacial. The Sun was already on the edge of the mountains, and its light gradually turned from yellow to orange.

Azrael put the hood on his head; it wasn't snowing or anything, it was just the fact that the end of his long ears were freezing, and covering them with his hair to warm them wasn't enough.

Once he finished rearranging his hood he relaxed and listened carefully to every single noise around him, and froze for a second.

Footsteps.

He turned around in a flash, already with a hand on the hilt sword, but he stopped immediately. He didn't recognize the person that stood, slightly scarred, in front of him, but one thing made him release all the tension of his body and drop every worry in his mind: the unknown individual was a Dunmer himself.

'By Azura…' sighed Azrael. 'You gave me quite a start.'

'I'm sorry,' he answered. 'I was about to greet you in fact. I'd never imagined you could hear me from that distance, or have reflexes of such incredible speed.'

'Some warriors from these lands took upon themselves to hone my skills. Don't worry about me,' said the Dragonborn, although his new mate could not understand the irony in his voice. 'Besides, it's good to encounter someone on the road. It's even better if that someone is somebody of my own kin.'

'It's good for the spirit, you're right. Nothing like this Nords wandering about all day long.'

The newcomer and Azrael were walking in the same direction, and so the Dragonborn waited for him before continuing. He casted a brief glimpse towards his new mate. He wore a black tunic, had a thick hood on his head and a long, grey cloak waving behind him. His complexion was darker than Azrael's one, but it was to be expected since the skin of the Dovahkiin had always been ashen. Like the vast majority of the Dunmer, the newcomer was perfectly shaven and his hair were shorter than Azrael's.

'What do they call you?' The Dragonborn asked.

'Faldrus. And you?'

'Azrael.'

'My pleasure.'

'What are you doing out here? Are you headed somewhere in particular?'

'Yes, I'm on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Azura. Our people build it when they arrived to Skyrim after escaping the eruption of Red Mountain. It's said to be a magnificent place. Have you ever been there?'

'No.'

 _The innkeeper in Riverwood mentioned it though,_ he recalled. _I hope of going there someday. It would be… nice._

One "side-effect" Azrael's fondness for silence brought along was that he didn't like to waste words. He enjoyed listening, but avoided speaking as much as he could, and usually answered in monosyllables to every question; in the beginning he had no experience, and people just waited for him to say something, but with time he learned to say certain things in certain moments so that the person he was speaking to kept on talking. And he was getting good. Particularly good.

'It has to be a wondrous place,' Faldrus continued 'It's on the highest mountain near Winterhold, and the main part is a statue of the Goddess that rises high in the sky. It's a symbol of our kin, and a great honor to our great protector and guide.'

'Hush…' groaned the Dragonborn. 'Honor counts for nothing to the Daedra. That shrine is only a symbol of her greatness, nothing more.'

'Yes, you're right…' said Faldrus in a hushed tone. 'I'm sorry.'

'Stop worrying. You're not disrespecting anyone, it's Nord vocabulary that got into us.'

'All their merciful, righteous, good-for-nothing Gods…' spit Faldrus. 'Who needs protectors like those?'

If asked between two Elves it's almost a rhetorical question.

'The weak,' answered Azrael. 'Or the ignorant.'

'Or both,' Faldrus pointed out.

'Or both,' agreed the Dragonborn. He doubted at first how pleasant that encounter would have been, but now he almost felt guilty of his being so skeptical towards the company of one of his own kin. He hadn't had an exchange of opinions like that since, well, since his ship had arrived in Windhelm. It had been a long time.

His companion pressed his hood on his temples, almost instinctively. Azrael noticed it and smirked.

'Ears congealing?' he asked.

'Yes,' smiled Faldrus. 'That's the only weak spot our ears have: they get cold as soon as it starts to be a bit chilly.'

'I sympathize.'

'That's something I accept though. I'd never give up my ears for anything, unlike these Nords suggest us to do. One of them asked me if I wanted them rounded.'

'Wouldn't suggest that.'

'Yeah, and you'd be right. They are useful, in spite of all things humans say. We can hear better, get distinct sounds one by one, not like Nords who hear only a confused noise. Humans are as deaf as Netches, Boethia's sake!'

Azrael laughed, coldly and darkly, as per usual. That conversation could have changed his mood, but not his soul, and that was glacial and dark, as always.

'They always have something to say about our skin being grey,' Faldrus continued. 'And what about them? They have pink skin, and you don't see me laughing.'

'Talking about the charming welcome the Nords gave us,' said Azrael. 'How did you wind up here in Skyrim?'

'I was born here; I lived in Falkreath with my parents, but my mother died some time ago and my father went to Solitude to join the Legion. Used to say that a united Empire is better for everyone. Haven't got word from him since. I decided to make the pilgrimage to think, have a chance to return to the ways of my ancestors. Many have passed, and I need to meditate, think about what was and isn't anymore. I'm quite sure you understand my feelings.'

Azrael nodded silently. He did, in his own way.

Meanwhile they walked and walked. Faldrus had trouble keeping up with the Dragonborn at first, swift as he was, but with time he got the pace and now marched alongside him without effort. The lonely and small heaps of thin snow that dominated the landscape a few miles before were now gone; in their stead, there was a thick blanket of snow that covered everything.

'And you?' asked Faldrus. 'How did you arrive here?'

Azrael laughed heartily at such a question, thinking about how much time would have been required to explain everything. His mysterious and glacial laughter intrigued the pilgrim a great deal, and so he stayed silent.

'Me?' grinned the Dragonborn. 'It would take forever to explain. Let's just say that I escaped, that I hoped to find peace in this frozen land, that I made a mistake, and leave it at that.'

'I understand,' said Faldrus. 'Or at least I think I do. Why did you escape?'

'Morag Tong assassins were after me. Don't ask me why. If only I knew.'

'They have turned hired assassin, as of late. Most of them are, at least. They have turned to those means to survive.'

'Yes, but who could want me killed? I was a nobody. Yes, maybe a sharp comment here and some strings pulled there, but to kill me? No way.'

'Wouldn't know. Have you left your family behind?'

The pilgrim was astonished when his companion suddenly stopped, frozen by something so strong that regret and sorrow were titanic understatements. Azrael slowly moved again, and then returned to his normal speed, still silent. But he would have spoken in the end, for a brother in blood could understand him.

'My daughter.'

Faldrus furrowed his eyebrows with curiosity. He thought that his mate couldn't have had more than fifty of sixty years, judging by the skin, and it was strange that he had a child at that age, and on top of that one that could live alone without her father's protection.

'Daughter?' he asked. 'But… Aren't you a bit young to have a child already?'

'I don't think she's my real daughter, and I don't care. She's my child by choice. I raised her. I found her outside my house one day. Someone had clearly left her there, but I have only conjectures as to who it was,' Azrael said, and this time told one more piece of truth than what he said to Aela. But he couldn't go further than that. He just felt his heart cracking in two. 'I'm sorry, that's all you'll get from me.'

Faldrus raised his hands: 'I won't press. I was just curious. No excuses needed.'

They arrived to a fork, one that led to the West and one to the East. Azrael needed to take the second one and Faldrus the first one. It was time to part.

'So, here is where we slip up?' said the pilgrim.

'I suppose so,' murmured the Dragonborn. 'Thank you for the company, Faldrus. It's been good having a brother in blood by my side.'

'My pleasure. I hope I'll see you again some day, Azrael. For the time being, farewell. And Azura's wisdom to you, my friend.'

'Farewell.'

The Elves shook hands and embraced each other.

And thus, in a hostile land covered in snow, at sundown, at a fork by a river hidden under the ice, the two parted. The Elf went West, to the Shrine of Azura, hoping to find his past there. The Dragon went East, to the city of Windhelm, not knowing that he would have found his future there.


	14. Kin-guardian

The door opened slowly, squeaking a bit.

'He's asleep, good,' said one.

'Shush! Do you want to wake him up?' whispered another.

There were precisely three men walking into the room. Candlehearth Hall was nice and empty, and they had had no trouble sneaking in. It was four in the mourning, and everyone beside some guards was asleep, resting in preparation for another, tiring day of normal life.

'What do we do now?' murmured one.

'What? You didn't think of anything? You idiot!' groaned another.

'Silence,' said the first. 'We need to think of something quick. We could just put some bugs into his bed.'

'We might put a couple of nails in his back.'

'And punch him good without him fighting back.'

'We could also set fire to the bed.'

'Too risky, and not very funny. They are cinder, they like fire, and don't fear it; what's more, we could set the inn alight. Far too dangerous.'

'Then let's round his ears off. That would be funny.'

'And I could rip your hearts out. Now that would be seriously entertaining.'

The three Nords froze solid where they stood. The sheets of the bed fell to the ground as the dark figure sleeping in it rose. The vague shadow of an arm touched the ground, and then the shape of a blade rose in the air with metallic screech. The edges blinked weakly in the first rays of sunlight that came through the window.

Two of the three Nords tried to back off, but moved too slowly. The first got kicked so strong he rolled to the side and against the wall, the second got hit by a punch that broke his nose with a terrifying crack, and the third felt a blade hissing right behind his head. His long blonde ponytail got cut off with astonishing precision.

'Ah… Ysmir's beard…' muttered one, spitting blood.

The dark figure stood in the middle of the room, a pillar of darkness in the dim light. He was very intimidating, tall as he was. The sunlight that got through the little holes in the wall illuminated the steel sword, which shone bleakly.

'Don't try anything like this again, or you'll regret it,' said a deep and glacial voice, clearly the one of a Dark Elf. 'For this once, you'll walk away, but next time I'll cut your hands off and rip your tongues out. And just for good measure I'll slice off your hideous round ears; we'll see if you'll joke about mine being pointed when you'll have none.'

The three men observed without daring to move a millimeter as the Dark Elf bend on the bed, picking up a long black cloak and putting it on his back. With that done he adjusted his bracers, fastened the blade to his belt and then turned towards the door. As he passed near the three Nords he snorted in disgust, and kicked one of them for the last time.

Those three men learned their lessons that day: Never double-cross the wrong person.

* * *

'Good morning, sir. Had a good night?' asked Elda, the innkeeper.

'Kind of…' sighed Azrael. 'I got waken up two hours ago by some idiots and got threatened of ears rounding, therapies based on putting bugs in my bed, tortures consisting in putting nails in my back and then burning me alongside the whole damned tavern.'

'What have you been drinking?' frowned the Elda.

'Something strong I hope.'

'I don't recall serving you anything, so either you are lying or you stole something from my storeroom.'

It happened in a flash: Azrael's hand went to the hilt of the sword, gripped it and drew it out. In a fraction of a second it was at Elda's throat. The woman stopped suddenly as if petrified. Then tried to put distance between the blade and her skin, but to no avail. The wall was right behind her.

'I'm trying to ignore how you humans treat me, but sometimes it's too much. Three men walked in my room and tried to harm me. I didn't give it any thought; they might have slipped past you, deaf as you are, but blaming me of theft? After what happened?'

'I… I…' muttered the innkeeper, trembling.

The crimson eyes of the Dunmer were flashing with rage, and ire he did not set free, but instead held inside himself to draw strength from it. His raven-black hair, usually perfectly straight, were wavy and dirty. His face showed only anger and tiredness. He was dreadful.

'I'll let it go this time, because I'm off this very morning,' he hissed. 'But next time I'll do as your friends did: I'll sneak in while you are asleep, and I'll butcher you like the animals you are.'

Azrael took the sword off Elda's throat and put it back in the leather sheath, then turned around, towards the door.

'Hey!' said the innkeeper, seeming to forget the blade that was on her skin moments before. 'You owe me for the night!'

Azrael stopped in the middle of the hall without turning; he just looked back, but his hair covered his eyes anyway.

'I owe you nothing,' he said in a whisper.

'You stayed here for the night and had food yesterday evening!' she complained.

'Might I be sincere?' the Dragonborn said, tittering. 'I don't give a damn.'

And then he walked out.

* * *

When you are passing through a place for just one night you might expect to be at least left in peace, but that didn't seem to be the case for Windhelm. Azrael arrived in the evening, late, and a lot of Nords already tried in vain to bully him or threaten him. He hoped that it would have stopped when morning came, but no; on the contrary, he would have fought a tough battle for the whole morning. Whether it was a battle he had already lost, he knew not and cared not.

Even as he walked out of Candlehearth Hall he had to see something he didn't like.

'You come here where you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!' a Nord was saying.

Azrael looked in the direction were the voice came from and saw two humans harassing a Dunmer, a she-Dunmer actually. He remembered both men, one of them very well even. They had a brief but rather intense encounter the night before.

 _Always the same… They don't touch anyone if they don't have the number advantage_ , he thought with disdain.

The she-Elf replied, almost surprised: 'But we haven't taken a side because it's not our fight.'

'Hey,' said the other Nord, 'maybe the reason these grey-skins don't help in the war is because they're Imperial spies!'

'Imperial spies? You can't be serious!' scoffed the Dunmer.

'Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are,' said the first Nord, but then he shifted his gaze and caught a glimpse of Azrael coming nearer.

The Dragonborn watched them as they divided and left the poor Elf alone. The one Azrael had already had the pleasure of meeting turned his head and walked exactly in the opposite direction of the one from which Azrael was coming. Now that the number was evened, they fled like cowards. The Dragonborn approached the she-Elf, considering what to do for a moment, but then deciding to drop caution and put a hand on the Dunmer's shoulder.

'And who are…' she snarled, but she stopped immediately upon seeing Azrael . 'Oh, sorry.'

'No need to apologize,' he answered in a soothing whisper. 'I suppose you're used to this things, but are you all right?'

'Yes, thanks for the concern. But who are you, you who still try to fight these Nords?'

'And how might you know I fight them?' asked Azrael, raising an eyebrow.

'I recognize your voice from yesterday evening. You were the one who scared Rolff off, weren't you?'

'Yes, it was me,' confirmed the Dragonborn. 'We had a… discussion, which always ends into a fight if you are speaking to a human. They don't know the meaning of "reasoning".'

'And good thing you did. We had one peaceful night after a long time.'

 _I didn't have a peaceful night, but for a good cause it seems…_

'But, those two ice-brains harassing you…' he asked.

'Nothing new there,' she sighed. 'Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don't care much for us, but Rolff is the worst by far. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Grey Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning. A real charmer, that one, as you witnessed.'

'But why would anyone think you are spies?'

'Some of these Nords will come up with any excuse to despise us. And it isn't just the Dark Elves they hate, they make a target of the Argonians as well. In fact, just about anyone who isn't a Nord is fair game for their bullying.'

'That sounds just like what humans do…' sighed Azrael.

'Fortunately that's not entirely true,' she answered, to the Dragonborn's surprise. 'Brunwulf Free-Winter is a Nord like all of them, and yet he defends our rights and respects us. If you plan on continuing your little campaign in disrupting Rolff or his friends, maybe you should talk to him.'

'I'll pay him a visit then. It's thanks to him you're holding up?'

'In good part. It's difficult, that much I assure you. There are arguments even between the Dark Elves: Ambarys, the owner of New Gnisis Cornerclub, usually mocks me because I work for a Nord, but… I need to make a living. If not for that Nord I wouldn't be able to buy drinks, and he also would starve as a result!'

'Well, in the end I make a living from work the Nords give me, so it's kind of the same.'

The she-Dunmer just shrugged, and smiled.

'I need to go, but it's been a pleasure to meet you. My name is Suvaris.'

'Same for me. Name's Azrael.'

'May the Three protect you.'

* * *

Having a mission to complete is a responsibility, but saving your own people is a bigger one in most cases. Azrael shared this view of the world, and was both curious and disgusted by how the Nords treated his kin. He initially thought of letting it go for the time being and race off to Dawnstar, but he now had a new goal. He was particularly interested about that Nord Suvaris mentioned. He found him eventually, talking to another Dunmer he had never met.

'You're a war hero, Brunwulf,' said the Elf. 'Ulfric will listen to you.'

'It's not that simple,' answered the Nord. 'Ulfric wants a Skyrim for the Nords. He doesn't trust what he calls outsiders.'

'You've seen how we live: cramped alleys, run-down buildings, few guard patrols. Even the name "Grey Quarter" is an insult.'

'I'll speak to Ulfric soon, but I make no promises that I can change his mind.'

'That's all I ask,' replied the Dunmer with a satisfied gesture. 'With your help, we have a chance to make a better life for ourselves here. For that, I thank you.'

The two parted without another world; Azrael turned around, pretending he didn't overhear anything, but Brunwulf was a better observer than he thought.

'Hey, you!' he called out. 'You were eavesdropping… You one of those "Skyrim for the Nords" types?'

The Dragonborn grinned malevolently, realizing that the Nord wasn't such an excellent observer after all: he failed to notice the mystery man eavesdropping was a Dunmer, which was understandable given Azrael was showing his back to him and that he was higher than an average Dark Elf, but still it was funny.

'No…' he replied, lowering his voice on purpose. 'I think all folk should be welcome here.'

'And you're right, at least as far as I'm concerned. Don't let Ulfric or some of these other short-sighted Nords bother you. Most of us are happy to welcome newcomers.'

Azrael turned around, showing his grey skin, red eyes and lowered his hood enough to show the long and pointed ears, without stopping to smirik. Brunwulf froze for a moment.

'A was not impartial in my judgment, you know.'

'What… I didn't realize,' gasped the Nord, but then a weak smile appeared on his face. 'I thought you were listening and cursing both me and the Dark Elves, but no…'

'Why help the Dark Elves at all?' the Dragonborn asked. It was the first Nord he saw that actively helped foreigners, and was interested it his motives.

'You overheard more than I thought… To make it short, the Dark Elves live in a run-down slum called the Grey Quarter. Ulfric's content to keep it that way. I guess they think I can open Ulfric's eyes to their plight, and get him to lift a finger on their behalf. I'm trying, but Ulfric is set in his ways. For him, there's two kinds of people in this world: Nords, and the folk beneath them.'

'I overheard another thing: That Dunmer you were talking to before called you a "war hero"…'

'I killed a lot of High Elves in the Great War, and I didn't die. I guess that makes me a war hero. The Great War… there was nothing great about it. Thousands died on both sides and where did we end up? Did we really save the Empire or did we just plant the seeds for Ulfric's uprising, and another war?'

Azrael just nodded, finding the threads of their thinking very similar. It wasn't hard for him to follow that reasoning.

'I need to go. Thank you… Brunwulf, correct?'

'Yes, and you're welcome.'

'I hope in both meanings…' grinned the Dunmer.

'With me, obviously,' smirked back the Nord. 'Safe journeys, sword-brother.'

The Nord and the Elf went in opposite directions, with newly-found happiness. Azrael had to think again over his prejudice that all the Nords leaving in Windhelm were racists and fools. If he had one guilt we could all see plainly, it was one that was overly common among the Dunmer: pride.

The Dragonborn thought over and over about this "little" flaw he had. Interestingly enough, he was proud of having the flaw of being such, because it drew him closer to his kin.

Ironic, yes, but who doesn't feel that way if he loves his own country and his own people?

* * *

'Hey, warrior, sir, do you have any money to spare?'

Azrael turned slowly around, but the very moment he recognized the face of the beggar his indifferent expression shifted to an angered one. That innocent-looking beggar was one of the two men harassing Suvaris;Rolff's companion. _Really?_ the Dragonborn thought. _He seriously asks for money after having bullied someone around?_ The man had realized his mistake by now, and was slowly backing off towards the wall.

He was out of luck. There was no one in sight.

'You, a disgusting little creature, is asking for my money? After what you've done to my kind?'

'I didn't—'

Azrael's kick silenced him. He rolled backwards, moaning and holding his face. The cheekbone was gashed and the eye badly beaten. Droplets of blood flowed in between his fingers. The spikes the Dunmer had put on the sole of his boots to walk on the snow had done their dirty job, even if not the one they were designed for.

'Come on, go and tell everyone the evil terrible Elf did that to you. They'll never stop mocking you.'

He walked away. He barely heard a noise that sounded like a sniff.

* * *

Now, you might be asking yourselves one thing: what was that bit about Azrael finding his future in Windhelm? How could an outsider and a traveller find his fate in city of that kind? It just seems impossible, right? You'd be mistaking.

As a matter of fact Azrael was walking between the buildings with his typical fast and strong pace, just looking around. The sky was cloudy, and he didn't really want to leave the thick city walls before the Sun was up. He heard guards talking about pack of wolves and howls coming from the forests; he just didn't want to encounter any threats of the road, not the ones he could avoid.

Because of this he kept exploring the city, and after a while a strange scene appeared before him: a she-Dunmer and a Nord child were discussing. He drew closer, remaining out of sight and counting on his good hearing to listen.

'Then it's true, what everyone is saying? That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?' asked the kid.

 _By the Three… Now that's an interesting one,_ The Dragonborn said to himself.

'Oh, Grimvar... always with the nonsense. No, no, of course not. Those are just tales..,' replied the Elf.

'Fine. Then I'll invite him out to play. He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door...'

Azrael froze solid for a second; that stupid kid, with all his innocent sharpness of mind reminded him so much about his daughter it was hard for him to remain serious.

'No, child! Wait! That boy, that house… they're cursed!' the Elf stammered.

'Ha! Then I'm right. I knew it. He's trying to have somebody killed!' rejoiced the boy.

'All right,' sighed the Elf. 'I won't deny it, child. What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can lead only to ruin. Now, enough. We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need.'

At that point Azrael was far too intrigued to remain behind the pillar, listening. He emerged and waved two fingers at the Elf, who came closer to him, maybe trusting him just because she was a Dunmer herself.

'I apologize, but… Did I hear you saying something about a cursed child?'

'Yes, it is quite sad,' she sighed. 'A young boy, Aventus Aretino, lost his mother recently, and was sent to an orphanage. But he has returned home, and people have heard strange chanting. They say it's the Black Sacrament, the ritual to contact the Dark Brotherhood. Why a little boy would want to contact a group of murderers is beyond me, but he is inviting evil into this city.'

Azrael just made a gesture of appreciation and she walked off, returning to the boy, who was waiting for her where they stood a moment before.

The Dragonborn gazed briefly and the door, raised and eyebrow and drew a couple of lockpicks from his pocket with a nonchalant air.

 _This is getting interesting…_


	15. Baptism of Blood

'Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear!'

That was the first time Azrael ever heard those words. He came from Morrowind, where the Dark Brotherhood never had a strong foothold. If something was wrong you needed to contact the Morag Tong, who would perform an "honorable elimination". He knew by personal experience that wasn't quite the case anymore.

I already mentioned it was the first time. Believe me, it wouldn't have been the last…

The Dunmer slowly closed the door behind him, making sure no one saw him breaking in. The reason why that boy had locked the house while expecting someone was beyond him, but he didn't give it too much thought. He went up the stairs, from where the voice came from.

 _Oh Daedra… what a damned mess…_

'Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear!'

The first room he stepped in was utter chaos; it was to be expected since that house was, by almost all means, abandoned. Furniture was scattered all over the floor, a number of things lied on the ground, likely fallen from somewhere and never picked up again. Spider webs covered the corners almost entirely, which was not so strange since outside the air was freezing: the searched heat.

A thing in particular caught Azrael's attention: a chest, turned upside-down by someone, someone who was obviously looking for something. Aside from some other clutter the Dunmer found a note; he was unsure whether the boy had heard him or not, but when "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother…" played out again he grinned and took the piece of paper: Aventus hadn't heard him.

The Dark Elf read:

Master Aventus Aretino,

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak wishes to express his deepest sympathies at the death of your mother, Naalia.  
Unfortunately, because you are fatherless, and have no other known relations,  
the jarl cannot allow you to remain in your home unsupervised. Therefore, in no more than a week's time,  
you are to report to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, where you will reside until your sixteenth birthday.

The Aretino family home in the city of Windhelm will, of course, remain your property.  
The building will be securely locked and ready for your return six years hence.

Note that I am unsure of the education provided to you by your recently deceased mother,  
or if you possess the ability the read the letter I am currently composing.  
Therefore, a member of the city guard will call upon you in one week, at your home,  
and provide escort to the orphanage. Hopefully, his arrival will not come as a complete shock.

With greatest respect,  
Jorleif

Steward to our most noble jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak

'Please... How long must I do this? I keep praying, Night Mother. Why won't you answer me?'

Azrael raised his head. The inflexible voice of the chanting had disappeared, and now the boy's voice sounded tired, exhausted even. The Dragonborn was good at understanding people's feeling through their tones, and this one was no different. That voice was exasperated.

'Grelod, you old crone. You'll get what you deserve. The Dark Brotherhood will see to that...'

The Dunmer stepped in the chamber where the voice of the kid came from and frowned slightly.

In the small room stayed Aventus, covered in rags, dirty, with filthy hair that were probably filled with lice. Behind him was the true spectacle though: a skeleton, a human judging by the bones, lying one the ground; in the decomposed torso lied a heart, a human heart, completely dried out of blood. Pieces of human flesh were around as well, and both those and the rotten heart created a nasty stench of decay.

Near the boy was a book, a really old book, and on it laid a beautiful and colorful Nightshade; Azrael had tasted one of those once, while in search of eatable plants. It took his mouth a full week to recover its tasting properties.

'Mind if I interrupt?' asked Azrael, with a slightly sarcastic note in his voice.

That precise thing, that slightly mocking tone, might have changed his fate right there.

The child got scared for a moment and jumped up, staring at the Dunmer. A second after he looked overjoyed, like it was the happiest moment of his entire life.

'You've come at last! I knew you would!' he cried.

Azrael raised an eyebrow, not so certain if that was reality or some damned nightmare. Either way he remained completely calm, his shadowy and glacial expression painted on his face. If his destiny had taken a specific direction a moment before, now it was already going that way.

'Are you all right?'

'It worked!' the boy cried again. 'I knew you'd come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the... the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!'

 _I've been mistaken for many things, but this is a new one._

The Dark Elf just gazed at the kid, restraining himself from laughing heartily at such a ridiculous circumstance. He just stood there, with an eyebrow still raised, and sighed deeply. Aventus wouldn't have given him the time to speak anyway.

'You don't have to say anything. There's no need. You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract.'

'Contract, is it?' asked the Elf.

'My mother, she... she died. I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind, but she's not kind. She's terrible, to all of us. So I ran away, and came home, and performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here, and you can kill Grelod the Kind!'

 _Should I…?_ Azrael asked to himself, distinctively feeling his sensitive self fighting his sensible one. _Well, why shouldn't I? This is work after all, and I need the gold for the journey._ Thus he stood straight in all his height and got down to work.

'Assassinations don't come cheap, boy.'

'I have a family heirloom you can have,' he quickly answered. 'Supposed to be sort of valuable. I hope that's all right.'

'That will do, but… Are you sure about this? Murdering this woman?'

'I've never been more sure about anything in my entire life. Someone like Grelod doesn't deserve to live one more day. She's a monster!' he said aloud, groaning.

As much as Azrael found that tone hilarious he forced himself to remain serious.

'But how did you end up there? Tell me about your mother, and what happened to her.'

'She got sick, last winter, when the snows came,' he sobbed. 'And she just... she never got better, not all year. One night she fell asleep and... never woke up. So now I'm all alone, and the Jarl said I had to go to Honorhall Orphanage. It's not fair!'

 _When human pride gets combined with childish foolishness the resulting mix is something nasty to say the least. I understand a bad joke, but wanting an old crone dead? Now that's something both serious and stupid at the same time, which is quite a feat._

'I understand. Take care, kid.'

The Dunmer turned back and walked down the stairs, out of the house. He shut the door behind him, and when he was sure no one could hear him burst into his typical glacial and dark laughter. If he only knew what was coming for him, he would have never stopped.

* * *

It was dusk; the Sun had set off almost completely, and there was only a vague light remaining. In Riften that's the moment you don't want to be on the streets, because they are not illuminated by the sunlight or by the lanterns. So, more or less, it was the moment when the streets were at their darkest. And with the dark comes… "unpleasant company".

'Maul.'

The dark figure shifted; he was leaning against a wall, while the one that spoke was walking towards him. They were barely recognizable in the dark.

'Greetings, Bryn,' answered the one against the wall. 'Want something from me?'

'Just want to know how this lovely Fredas went in the streets,' replied the other one.

Now, we should remind that when Azrael left Windhelm it was Tirdas, in the morning. Three days had passed, soon to be four in fact.

'It's always the same,' said the other. 'Some merchants complained about a Dragon flying over a peak nearby, I don't remember the name…'

'It's got to be Northwind Summit,' interrupted the other.

'Whatever, they complained all day long about that. It was quite entertaining.'

'Can't deny that. They even bought some of my Wisp Essence.'

'You'd better give up selling that junk.'

'I'll overlook this insult,' the first one grinned. 'My exquisite, all-mighty and all-healing creation? Seriously, how do you even dare question my products?'

The two men laughed for a second.

'Anyway, down to serious matters…' the same one continued. 'I need information about that lad that walked into the city this morning.'

'Ah… that one?' sighed the other. 'He's an interesting one. A Dark Elf, do I remember correctly?'

'You do, Maul, you always do. Thing is, I could use some more information about him. You know, he seems dangerous: he managed to get into the city from the South Gate, which is officially closed, wandered a bit around, entered Honorhall, vanished, and then… Turns out old Grelod is dead! I don't think I'm being paranoid.'

'No, you're not. What's more, you should know something.'

'Meaning?'

'He looked very, very cautious. He sneaked around the city for half an hour, avoiding both me and you, staying clear of the city guards and speaking only to very few people. When I asked around if they knew anything about him, most of my contacts hadn't even noticed him walking about. I… "overheard" him saying something about the orphanage, and at a certain point he also said something about the Dark Brotherhood.'

Complete silence fell between the two men, heavy as a boulder. The first one was surprised and the second one was smiling malevolently.

'First time in years you don't know what to say.'

'It is, Maul, it really is. This lad seems to an interesting subject. Anything else you can tell me? Or is that it?'

'Quite the opposite, I saved the good stuff for now.'

'You may have lost your thief skills, but you certainty sharpened your talker ones,' joked the first man. 'So tell me. I'd say you color me intrigued.'

'I've been to the orphanage this afternoon. Maven had an appointment with the Jarl, and was temporarily safe inside the castle; I asked her if I could look into the matter, and she agreed. Thus I went in Honorhall, and took a look around. First thing I found was an interesting one: Constance Michel and the kids claimed they didn't see anyone escape the building, yet they saw someone entering around five minutes before the murder.'

'That person could very well be our Elf…' murmured Brynjolf. 'Fine, what then?'

'The person that entered seems to have vanished. They all remember him entering but no one saw his getting out. Thing is, I found an opened window, and below it there were a few drops of blood.'

'How did the old harridan die?' asked the first one, understanding the drops of blood might have been a clue.

'I see you got where I was getting to. The hag died stabbed, and not by a dagger, but by a sword.'

'A sword that could have been the steel masterpiece the Elf brought along. Sharp enough, I would guess. That lad is showing some real talent…'

'Yes, he really is. Thing is, he mentioned the Dark Brotherhood, and that confuses me terribly.'

'I ought to ask old Delvin if his friend said anything about a new member. Doubt he'll answer me, he never does, but maybe his expression will betray his response.'

'That would be best… And, Bryn?'

'Yes, Maul?'

'If that Elf comes here again… Should I get rid of him? I've got sufficient information to blame him for the murder. A little coin from you and a little help from Maven and he will rot in a cell.'

'No…' answered the first one, in a cryptic tone. 'I'd rather have a little chat with him.'

* * *

'Give this to him, and make sure no one notices you.'

'Should… Should I tell him anything?'

'No.'

'But what am I supposed to say if he asks who sent the letter?'

A metallic sound echoed in the night as a heavy coin purse fell into the man's hand. He trembled for a second, sensing from the weight it was a sizable amount.

'Will that do?' asked the sender, a woman.

'I'll be off immediately. I should arrive before he manages to get back to the city. I'll give it to him then. Is that all right?'

'Yes, now it is. Take care.'

The courier got on the saddle and spurred the horse. The mare bolted ahead with a long neigh and soon disappeared into the night, darkened by black clouds. The woman didn't lose sight of him until he got past the bridge, only then she turned.

'Gabriella!' she called out.

'Astrid, your orders?' a female voice asked from the shadows, most likely of a Dark Elf.

'Return to the Sanctuary at once and tell the others I'll be back within days, a week at most. I've got some unfinished matters with this fellow murderer of ours, which seems to fulfill our work without asking us first. Quite rude, if you ask me.'

'Are we going to kill him after he repays the debt?'

'I don't know yet, but something tells me I shouldn't. This man has got some serious nerve if he think he can challenge us and win. He's either stupid or relentless. In the first case I'll kill him, but in the second… He would be both a threat and a wasted resource to our cause, in which case I'll invite him to join the Family. He'll be well, I'm sure.'

'I am too.'

'See you, Sister.'

'Take care, Astrid.'

* * *

And so it was that three pieces of the wheel moved together.

A shadowy and mysterious Dunmer was walking in the middle of the night, guided by the light of the Moons and keeping to the road to avoid the wolf packs roaming Eastmarch.

A hasty courier was riding to Windhelm, still urging the horse like he had three Daedric Princes just behind him. The neighs of the mare were loud, and woke several people along the way.

And last but certainly not least a woman that rode in the night on a black horse with glowing red eyes that looked like burning coals. A lock of blonde hair fell on his chest, but the rest of her hair was hidden under a hood, and the rest of her face behind a black mask. The only visible thing were her eyes, but even then her expression was unreadable.


	16. Unavoidable Consequences

Aventus sat on a chair.

Six days had passed since the Dark Brotherhood Assassin had taken the contract, and he hadn't received any news still. The child barely ate and slept only when he felt his eyes closing shut; he dared not show his face outside, and used the rain that filled the bucket on the window to drink. He needed nothing more, only good news.

He always thought… Well, in truth he never thought about what would have his encounter with the assassin been like, but he surely wasn't expecting this. He imagined the assassin to be fatherly, as Sithis had been to him, but no: he had been ironic, sometimes even mocking it seemed. The boy wondered if he was mad and enjoyed killing, or something else, but either way that behavior indubitably gave him comfort. That man… Elf, actually, feared nothing and laughed when faced with a task like killing a defenseless old crone.

It was for these reasons that, as soon as he heard the door squeaking, he stood up and ran towards it; to his surprise the murderer was already in the middle of the main room.

The kid swallowed, overflowing with excitement and stung by fear at the same time; the figure of the assassin was intimidating. He was sure of himself to the point of being followed by a queer aura of protection.

'So, Grelod the Kind…' the boy stammered. 'Is she… you know…'

'Grelod the Kind is dead,' said the Elf, with his deep and glacial voice.

'Aha!' screamed the kid, as laughter burst out of him mouth. 'I knew you could do it! I just knew it! I knew the Dark Brotherhood would save me!' Then he ran to a cupboard and took a shiny dish from the top. 'Here,' he said, handing his treasure to Azrael. 'just like I promised. This should fetch you a nice price. And thank you, thank you again!'

The Dunmer examined the heirloom critically, observing the details.

 _A piece of junk, but a damn good one…_ he considered.

'What are you going to do now, boy?' he asked.

''ll go back to the Orphanage in a while. I'll give them time to, you know... clean up the mess.'

'I reckon they already did.'

'And, when I grow up, I'm going to be an assassin. That way I can help lots of children, just like you.'

Azrael was already turning his back to the kid, but when he heard that last sentence he stopped for a second. Aventus saw his eyes narrowing and burning with a hellish flame for a moment. The boy trembled, waiting for him to speak. And he eventually did.

'A killer's job is not helping children, but ending lives. It's not something you'd never want to do, trust me.'

'But you helped me! My life is now happy again! Is that not something good?'

The Dark Elf sighed and then kneeled on one knee, making sure that his face was at the same height as the kid's one; his scorching gaze met the one of the boy, and did not relent.

'Listen kid, let's make a deal,' he said, dead serious, without a single note of sarcasm in his voice. 'This is a promise: One day, when you'll feel ready to leave the orphanage, you'll come with me, and we will kill. For your first time. We'll see then if you'll believe me.'

'Swear it!'

'Upon the Three and their power, I swear.'

The boy felt overflowing with joy once more, and felt the devastating feel of being young and wanting to grow up fast, to do what normal men do and to know what he was forbidden to. Azrael was not the first idiot that came pass, and saw that precise thing in the brown eyes of the kid, and slightly shook his head. He would have not liked it, not one bit. But he promised, and Aventus would have never given up.

'Take care, kid.'

* * *

Meanwhile, outside the city, a dark figure was lurking in the shadows.

Dusk was coming, it would have soon be dark. Some khajiits were setting camp right beside the stables, lighting a campfire. The guards, who usually stayed still or leaned against the first wall on sight, were walking endlessly from one side of the road to the other to keep warm. The breaths of everyone created huge clouds of steam that vanished in the chilly air, and the horses were neighing loudly because of the cold.

The cloth part of the dark figure's mask was wet; she had been breathing behind that thing for quite some time now. She was around a populated area, after all. She was cautions, that's it. She had seen a Dunmer very similar to the one described entering the city, and now she was waiting for the right moment.

She calculated everything. Absolutely everything. It was the only way. A Dark Brotherhood Assassin has to think of everything, even the most minuscule details.

* * *

'Go, go!'

The horse neighed, but kept on galloping. They were close, really close. Nightfall was near, and they got to the city just in time. He had managed one more time.

Finally the stables were in sight. The man reined the mare up, and it slowed down with another neigh. Two guards stationed at the beginning of the bridge and the stable workers looked at him as he came but shifted their gazes quite quickly. Couriers were not a rare sight in those times.

The man dismounted and fastened the horse to a nearby stake, possibly used as trail mark in the past He untied a small parcel from the saddle and raced off to the gates. A guard tried to stop him, but he didn't even listen.

'Important deliveries to make,' he apologized. 'No time for chatting.'

The man continued his run; the guard at the gate opened it without saying one word and closed it after him. The courier looked around and searched for the receiver. He did not see him anywhere, so he run to the inn.

'Excuse me…' he panted. 'I'm looking for a certain "Azrael". Have you got a clue of where he might be?'

The innkeeper snorted and pointed East. 'Yes, he'll be spending the night at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, as he should. I'll not let that Grey-skin stay here one night longer!'

 _New Gnisis Cornerclub_ _… Yes, all right,_ thought the man, eventually remembering where it was.

'Thank you, I'd best be off now.'

He ran off again, and ran, and ran. It took him a good three or four minutes of running to get to the Grey-Quarter, and five more or less to reach the Cornerclub. He went so fast he didn't even notice the Nords had disappeared from the streets, and in their stead walked a few Dark Elves. Even the architecture had changed significantly, but he was too busy.

The man dashed beyond the door and then stopped, finally seeing the person he was looking for.

'Thanks Ambarys, it means a lot. Any way I can pay you back?'

'No need. You did enough for me that single night when you scared those drunken pigs off.'

'As soon as I'm gone they'll come back and retaliate.'

'And you know that is of no importance. We are used to it, and if we have to bear another raid because of what you did I'll be more than happy. You showed them something none of us has been able to do since we arrived here: that there is someone stronger.'

'They could ravage your homes, Ambarys.'

'Azrael, stop pretending,' smirked the Dark Elf. 'You are a Dunmer. You know how we are.'

'Yes, I know,' grinned the other Elf. 'If they want to stop us, they'll have to destroy us. We can't be deterred.'

'Precisely, and that is why we can stand another attack, if they decide to make one. Maybe we'll drown in our own pride, but we will not back off.'

'Well said…' smiled Azrael. 'Well said indeed.'

'Now…' said Ambarys, staring unpleasantly at the courier. 'It seems you've got company.'

The Dragonborn turned around and fixed his gaze upon the man, who swallowed and stared back at the Dunmer helplessly, feeling his knees turning into jelly. The red eyes of the Dark Elf blazed for a second as he spoke.

'And what might you want?' he asked, irritated. His voice was absolutely glacial.

'I… I… I've been looking for you,' he gasped.

 _Oh… You don't say…_ thought the Dunmer, restraining from laughing.

'Got something I'm supposed to deliver, your hands only,' the courier continued, grabbing the parcel. 'Let's see here… Yeah, got this note.'

The Dunmer snatched the note from his hand and raised an eyebrow.

'From who?' he asked.

'Don't know,' confessed the man. 'Creepy fella, black robe, couldn't see her face… paid me a pretty sum to get that into your hands though. And… looks like that's it, got to go.'

And he raced off.

Azrael watched him as he ran past the door and closed it shut behind him. He frowned slightly, and exchanged an amused glance with Ambarys. Then he read the note in his hand. The innkeeper was really surprised when he saw the Dragonborn narrowing his eyes and glaring at the piece of paper with somewhat trembling hands and eyes burning red.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

'I think I am…' answered Azrael, in a cryptic tone, putting the piece of paper in his pocket.

'So, unimportant things away, are you going to have dinner with us?' asked Ambarys.

'Gladly.'

* * *

The Dragonborn fell on his bed like a sack. He was so tired he didn't even think of taking off his boots or his gauntlets. Before falling asleep he looked at the note again, and sighed deeply.

That insignificant piece of paper contained a message which he strived to understand, but couldn't. That gigantic black hand in the middle was a symbol he had never seen before, not in Morrowind, not in Vvardenfell or in any other place he had ever been to. And the two words below were just as enigmatic: "We know". It didn't make any sense to his mind, and he fell asleep peacefully, not giving it much thought.

He should have.

It was the heart of night when the dark figure considered venturing into the city safe enough. She already knew where to find her target and was ready for anything, like she should have been.

When she stepped in the Cornerclub she made sure there was no one watching. She went up the stairs quietly, avoiding the two Dark Elves arguing on the first floor, and crept straight up to the top floor, where her prey slept.

She was about to step in, but she suddenly stopped. Something was just behind the door.

The experienced gaze of the figure saw it was a tripwire, placed with utter perfection to make sure no ordinary man could enter without stumbling on it. But she was no "ordinary man". She was a woman, first of all, and she was a Dark Brotherhood Assassin. Strangely enough she was not there to kill, but to do something different.

She cut the tripwire with precise movements and crept up to the bed. She picked up a cobalt blue vial from her pocket and softly opened the Dunmer's mouth, pouring the elixir into his throat; to the last drop.

After that she surrounded him with her arms and lifted him up, silently. Her blonde hair where falling down on the chest of the Elf, who was sleeping deeply under the effect of the elixir.

* * *

The day after a few weird things happened in the Nord of Skyrim. There always were weird things happening there, but these one were particularly so: A peasant ran into the center or Stonehills screaming and yelling about a daemon with eyes burning like scorching coals running through the forest at unreal speed. He looked stunned and completely mental. Many thought he was raving, but no one ever found out why. It took two entire days to calm him down.

In the nearby Imperial Camp, in the mercenary section, a soldier went missing in the middle of the night. He was a man of some renown, but no one was able to explain his disappearance. The sentries swore they saw nothing. The sellswords of the camp were all inspected, as the Imperial fear both that they had done the deed and that the man disappearing was desertion. They feared others might imitate him. Either way the Imperial doubled the effort in guarding the camp from that point, to no great effect.

In Morthal, a woman vanished in the night, so unexpectedly and senselessly that some thought she had simply turned to vapor. The neighbors understood immediately that something wasn't right: you can imagine how four children crying and two more yelling can be quite a nuisance to someone wanting to sleep. Unfortunately there was no trace whatsoever, and the children themselves, scared to death, weren't able to tell anything. The guards gave up the search after a couple of hours.

Lastly we come to the thing nobody ever heard of: The leader a group of Khajiits got kidnapped, and his mates in crime looked for him for a lot of time afterwards, but again found no trail. Not even the smell of the snatcher. They all were criminals of the worst kind, and even though no one knew their boss got captured, an awful lot of other people would have been very happy about it. After having understood that he wasn't coming back, they decided to choose a new leader. After three stabs and one poisoning they settled for a new boss, and forgot about their previous one.

* * *

The dark figure completed the knot, looked at it critically and walked away from the captives.

'Who… Who are you?' asked the first one, a man.

'It's not your concern,' answered the figure.

'Why are we here, tied to this pales like animals?'

'It's not your concern,' she repeated.

'And whose concern is this?' the third questioned. A Khajiit, no doubt.

'His.'

They all remembered the Dunmer fainted on the ground as they entered and got tied. No doubt she was referring to him. There was no other person in the shack.

'So, what are we waiting for?' asked the middle one, a woman.

The dark figure rested her gaze upon the sleeping Dunmer for a short while, then sighed deeply and said: 'For him to wake up.'


	17. Unfinished Business

It was not the first time the Dunmer awaked in an unknown place, not understanding a thing and with a terrible headache. The infamous night when he was turned into a Werewolf the events followed a similar course. A very similar one, even: the second thing he remembered was Aela's voice, a whisper in the night.

This time around it played out almost the same way.

Azrael opened his eyes and blinked two times in a row. Everything he was feeling felt wrong: He got to sleep in a bed, and now he felt hard wood planks beneath him; the room where he fell asleep was small, and now the wall was at a good two or three meters away from him, and lastly in the room in the Cornerclub there was a delicious smell of food, while in the place he was now there was a nasty stench of humid and rot.

He tried to stand up. His arms were stiffed, and while trying to understand the reason the Dark Elf felt a strange taste in his mouth, but couldn't recognize the single ingredients.

 _A poison, damn it._

He looked up at the one of light sources in the room; it looked like a few candles by the light color, but the thing that made him stop was the vague, dark shape of a human body that sat right to them. One of the legs was clearly dangling, and from that he realized it was not a corpse. In fact, after a few moments the figure talked.

'Sleep well?'

The Dunmer almost had a flashback of Aela asking him if he was awake after his transformation. This time around the tone of figure was not friendly or tender but rather mocking, sarcastic even.

'Where am I? What happened?' asked Azrael, confused.

'Does it matter?' she asked. 'You're warm, dry... and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod, hmm?'

Azrael looked at the figure more carefully, the sighed in exasperation. 'You know that?'

Even though her mouth was covered by the cloth mask the Dunmer could have swore she grinned.

'Half of Skyrim knows,' she said. 'Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand,' she quickly said, noticing the irritated face of the Dark Elf. 'I'm not criticizing, it was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot. Ah, but there is a slight... problem.'

 _By the Three… It's getting better by the minute._ Azrael thought.

'Meaning?' he said after a second, seeing that the figure wasn't continuing.

'You see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates.'

 _Oh well… that explains quite a bit. And complicates matters. Oh Daedra, it seems like I'm mixing in all the possible games these guilds of assassin set up._

'Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract,' the figure explained. 'A kill... that you stole. A kill you must repay.'

The Dunmer frowned slightly, raising and eyebrow: 'You want me to murder some else? And who might that be?' he asked, smiling tiredly.

Once again Azrael had the strong impression the figure smiled: 'Well now, funny you should ask. If you turn around, you'll notice my guests. I've "collected" them from... well, that's not really important. The here and now, that's what matters.'

 _I've been through too many crazy things to even hope this is all a damned nightmare._

The Dunmer just continued to stare at the figure with his eyes fixed in hers.

'You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive,' she explained. 'But... which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice, make your kill. I just want to observe... and admire,' she added, with a delighted tone.

 _Three, two, one…_

Azrael turned his back to the figure and looked at the other side of the building.

Barely illuminated by the light of the candles were three people, kneeling, with their hands tied behind their backs. They all had their heads completely covered by a hood that looked a bit like a sack to be perfectly honest.

Azrael walked up to the first one, and began from the left. He liked it more.

 _What have we got here? Nord, not too old, strong… Looks like a warrior from the general shape of the body._

The Dunmer stopped and stood in front of the man; the thought of killing an innocent person didn't bother him in the slightest. He had been through so much he had grown cruel beyond point of no return. Even though thoughts about why someone would want a stolen kill to be repaid was beyond him, he did not give that any importance.

 _I did the job in their stead, saved them time and recourses, and instead of thanking me they put me asleep with a poison, kidnap me and bring me to some Daedra-forsaken place… For what? To what end? My whole life is about killing, it's the thing I do best._

That was not entirely true, but whatever… "The here and now", as the figure said.

Azrael scratched the wooden floor with his boot, and the man shacked violently.

'What did I do? Please, whatever it is, I'm sorry,' he said.

The Dark Elf looked at him for a long time.

From the back of the shack the figure was watching attentively, waiting for the next action of the Dunmer, but without any fret. In truth, she was delighted by how events turned out. That Elf looked like someone worthy of trust on the good side and extremely dangerous on the other. Thus it was not a resource that should have gone to waste.

The figure watched as the Dark Elf loudly cleared his throat, and smiled.

'Is this about that raid last week? I told Holgrim there was no honor in killing sleeping men, but he wouldn't listen! It wasn't my fault, I swear!' Fultheim moaned.

Her smile got broader when she heard the glacial, deep voice of the Dunmer: 'Who are you?'

'My name is Fultheim.'

 _Know as the Fearless, for whatever reason…_ the figure said to herself.

'I'm a soldier. Well, mercenary, really. You know, a... a sellsword. I've lived in Skyrim all my life. That's all! I'm a nobody, really. So… can't you just let me go?'

The figure narrowed her eyes, waiting. But the Dark Elf didn't answer, instead he cut to the chase.

'Listen, would somebody pay to have you killed?' he said.

'What? Oh gods, I don't want to die…!' the warrior stammered.

'Don't be afraid, you can tell me,' replied the Dark Elf coldly. Perhaps it was his emotionless voice that convinced Fultheim to continued, and that intrigued the dark figure.

'Okay, well... I guess it's possible,' answered the Fearless. 'I've been selling my sword arm for years now. Killed a lot of people. Could be someone wanted revenge. But... But you're not going to kill me. War is war, right?'

The woman was not sure, but she could have wagered she heard the Dark Elf reply: 'And life is life,' in a deep whisper.

Azrael casted a last glance at the mercenary and then proceeded to the one in the middle. The figure adjusted her position to remain comfortable, and then laid her head against the wall. In the meantime the Dunmer had walked up to the second hostage, who was groaning incisively.

'I don't have time for this nonsense,' she said. 'I've got a home to keep and children to feed. Now let me out of here!' and then, hearing no answer, she proceeded with taunting. 'By the gods, when I get out of here you're dead! You hear me? Dead!'

The Dark Elf didn't even seem to take notice, and kept looking at her without uttering a word. He stood there, straight, resolute, patient, and freely taking his time to act. The figure watched him, and smiled behind the mask.

 _Nobody can deny I like him,_ she thought. _He is a born assassin._

And she right. What took others weeks to figure out it took that woman only a couple of minutes, only because she was quite "acquainted" with death, and saw clearly where it had left its mark, both on the living and on the dead.

'Who are you?' asked the Dunmer eventually.

'None of your damned business who I am!' she hissed. 'If you're going to kill me, just do it already! As Mara is my witness, if I didn't have this damned hood on right now I would spit right in your face…'

The Elf shook his head slightly, and the figure understood: he had no specific interest in who she was exactly, only needed the information he wanted to decide if he should kill her or not.

'Simpler this time,' the Dunmer whispered, and then asked, louder: 'Would somebody pay to have you killed?'

'Excuse me? What kind of question is that?'

'It's all right. Just… tell me what I need to know,' sighed the Dark Elf.

And, surprisingly, she said exactly what he needed to know, without further complaint.

'I'm a woman living in Skyrim with six children and no husband. I don't have the time or patience to be "nice". Do some people look down on me? Have I made some enemies? You're damn right.'

 _The warrior mother at her best…_ thought the figure, still not taking her eyes off the Elf.

The Dunmer remained there for another moment, but did nothing, and instead went to the last hostage, the Khajiit.

 _He is either still thinking or already thought the previous two were not the target,_ the figure assumed. _Well, now he'll speak to the real bandit, and things will become clearer._

'Tell you what: you release me, and I promise my associates won't hunt you down like an animal and butcher you in the street. It's a win-win,' the Khajiit said, perhaps smelling the Dunmer near him. 'Whoever this is, clearly we got off on the wrong foot. Ah, but no worries. This is not the first time I have been bagged and dragged.'

 _Playing the clever and tough…_ thought the figure. _I don't know if it will work with our dearest Elf over there._

'Come now, whatever the problem, we can talk about it like civilized folk,' continued the Khajiit.

'Let's,' answered the Dunmer, coldly. 'Who are you?'

'Ahh… Vasha, at your service. Obtainer of goods, taker of lives, and defiler of daughters,' he introduced himself.

The figure noticed the Dark Elf quaking for a second; the little that she could see of his right eye blazed bright red and his hand quickly went to the hilt of the sword.

 _Is he losing control?_ the figure asked herself. _Oh, that's inconvenient. It's not very professional on his part. Let's wait and see, I refuse to admit he might loose his self-control this fast._

She was right in believing that. The Dunmer quickly returned straight and still, his hand fell beside the blade and his eyes lost that frightening bright. The figured smiled.

'Have you not heard of me? Perhaps I will have my people carve my name in your corpse, as a reminder,' taunted the Khajiit, not hearing an answer.

'Would somebody pay to have you killed?' the Dunmer questioned him in return.

'Me?' laughed the bandit. 'Are you serious?'

'Listen, I'm in no mood for rhetoric questions,' hissed the Dark Elf. 'Answer me, now, or I'll paint this room with your blood.'

'Fool! Don't you get it?' the Khajiit snorted. 'I live in the shadow of death every day. A knife in every doorway, a nocked arrow on every rooftop! If one of my enemies wouldn't pay to have me killed, I'd take it as a personal insult.'

Azrael stayed silent, and stepped back.

 _Now it's the time…_ thought the figure. _No more games, no more talks. Just you, me and your blade. Don't you dare refuse: you can't, you're not allowed. Now it's the time to kill._

The Dunmer stepped ahead this time; it looked like he chose his target. The steel blade hissed darkly as he drew it.

He was calm, glacial. He was about to do the worst thing a sentient being can do: killing someone else coldly, rationally, while having the complete control over the situation. Fear is not a factor, as long as it doesn't become utter terror. And the Dark Elf was like that.

And it was like that his blade sunk in the flesh of his victim. The steel penetrated the thick skin and soaked the grey fur of the Khajiit in crimson blood. His scream filled the air.

'Oh, gods, please! Let me live! I'll do anything you want!' shrieked Fultheim, trying to stand up but falling down. And shortly after the woman followed.

'What's happening? Damn it, what are you doing?' she cried out.

In the screams of pain and terror the laugh of the dark figure in the corner wasn't perceivable, even by the long ears of an Elf.

The Dunmer ignored the mess and kneeled beside the body, grabbing the sword by the edge of the blade; the figure narrowed her eyes, not understanding what he was doing, but quickly realized he was carving something in the flesh of the corpse. The Elf shook the blade to make the blood drip away, and then sheathed it.

He walked back slowly, raised his gaze up at the dark figure and pointed at the bloodied corpse.

'The conniving Khajiit,' she commented, slowly. 'Cat like that was sure to have enemies. It's no wonder you chose him.'

She looked back at him, but his red eyes were impenetrable; Azrael stayed perfectly silent, crossed his arms and just waited for her to speak again. But that attitude did not fly under her radar.

'Hmm… When most would speak you listen, you think,' she observed. 'You understand that the only thing that matters is you following my orders.'

'I guess you could put it that way…' sighed the Elf, sniggering slightly. 'Am I free to go now?'

'Of course,' replied the woman. 'And you've repaid your debt in full. Here's the key to the shack,' and she picked it up from behind herself. Azrael tried to snatch it, but she was faster. 'But why stop here?' she continued, keeping the key out of the Elf's reach. 'I'd say we take our relationship to the next level. I would like to extend to you and invitation to join my Family. The Dark Brotherhood.'

Azrael again tried to grab the key with a sudden movement, but not even his lighting-fast reflexes proved enough. The woman just put it out of his reach, and continued like nothing had happened. 'In the South-West reaches of Skyrim, in a pine forest, you'll find the entrance to out Sanctuary. It's just beneath the road, hidden from view. When questioned by the Black Door answer with the correct passphrase: "Silence, my Brother". Then you're in, and your new life begins.'

Only then she took the key and placed it willingly into the Elf's hands.

'I'll see you at home,' she said.

The Dark Elf took the key and immediately opened the door to the shack; he was clearly about to throw it away, but he thought over and instead placed it in his pocket. With a last glare at the figure he stepped out, silently.

 _At least he knows where we are. He is one of us already, maybe he just doesn't know that yet. There are only two kinds of people that walk these world: those born victims and those born assassins. He is definitely an example of the latter,_ the woman thought.

She grabbed a piece of paper and some ink from the shelf beneath her and quickly wrote:

 _I'm following our new_  
 _Brother for a bit more._  
 _Take care, my Siblings._

 _Astrid_

She left the note on the shelf and jumped down, going to the remaining victims.

'What now?' asked Fultheim, terrified.

'Now what? You'll die,' Astrid answered, slowly taking her blade off the sheath.

'What?' he screamed. 'I believed it was the cat who was guilty!'

'We're all guilty of something, some more than others, but guilt is not a factor for the Dark Brotherhood.'

'But… He had the contract…'

' _All_ of you had contracts on your head,' she explained. 'I just wanted to know which one he would have chosen. I never kidnap, kill or slaughter at my own pleasure. I don't need to.'

And then her blade sank in the throat of the man; after a second in the one of the other prisoner. While she was at it she looked at the corpse of the Khajiit, and smiled. The inscription the Dunmer carved said: "Curse your Gods and die".


	18. Just like Him

As it often does in the southern parts of Skyrim, the wind was blowing from the North. The firs shook in the breeze, howling. Even if there were no clouds in the sky the air was still cold, as if no place could be reached by complete warmth.

Azrael kind of felt the same way.

 _Any time I look around I only see death. Why? Is no place safe from destruction?_

He thought over that a lot while traveling South. When he had come out of that abandoned shack he had no idea where he could be. The humid cold that nibbled at him suggested he was far North, maybe in the marshes that were said to surround Mortahl. Thus, he had gone South; he later realized those swamps were indeed the ones near the city of Morthal, which he saw in the distance in his journey back. And while walking he had a lot of time to think.

 _Maybe the only way to avoid destruction is to master it. Who knows? If anyone, those assassins must know. In the end, who can possibly be more acquainted with death than someone who delivers it without hiding it behind honor, righteousness or some other nonsense. As far as I know, they kill for the sake of it. Yes, they hide behind that Night Mother or something, but it's probably all a lie._

No harm in trying.

Now, the obvious solution in this case would be to end all of it. Finish with that life and start anew. He had done it once, he could have done it again. But was that a viable option for him? No, it was not. The problems were many, the first and the simplest was that he was Dragonborn, and that means one thing: being born to do great things. Secondly, he already started a new life only three months before, and forgot how it is to live like a normal person. He was tired, too tired even to accept endings which are beginnings. There were dilemmas both inside and outside that rendered it impossible to start anew.

Before his escape from Morrowind he tilled the land without thinking, growing his crops because it was the only thing he wanted and was able to do. It was all he knew. Now it was not that different: he killed because it was the only thing he was able to do.

As much as he could complain about death being everywhere, death was the only thing that gave him purpose.

He had taken the lives of many, and that had changed him. Scarred him. He felt nothing while sinking his blade in the flesh of whoever was so unfortunate or stupid to double-cross him. He felt nothing when releasing the string of the bow and sending to the enemy a death message in the form of a cruel and sharp tip of an arrow. That mechanical system of self-protection was effective, but quite restricting. Had it not been there he could have been driven mad, but having it equaled to not growing up. How could a student learn if he immediately forgets the lesson he just attended? How could a warrior become such if he doesn't store in his mind the new swings his trainer tells him to learn? And how could someone become an assassin if he can't perceive how it feels to kill? It just not going to happen.

The Dunmer had a taste of it while murdering that Khajiit in the shack, and suspected the dark figure knew of it. He felt a sting of fear as his blade cut through the flesh of the criminal, something he didn't sense since killing the Morag Tong. And that was long before. There was something that scared him, when he killed in cold blood. Clear-mindedness had always been a gift as well as curse for him, since he rarely acted driven by emotions or instinct. Now, that point was true again. While taking a life, he felt fulfilled. That very thing scared him to death.

He stopped thinking for a second as he saw a subsiding on the right of the road;

 _Hmm… A pine wood, a sinking in the terrain, hidden from immediate view… Must be it._

He walked off the road and followed a small pathway. It had not been cleared in a while and it could have easily passed unnoticed if one didn't pay close attention. The Dark Elf saw a lake down at the bottom of the small depression, a black lake that didn't seem to reflect the things around it like normal water does.

 _It's definitely it._

He went ahead still and saw the Door.

 _By the Three… Now that's something intimidating._

On the black portal there was a strange bas-relief, made in white stone, resembling a big skull in the center and a skeleton lying on the left side on the molding. It did not make any sense for the Elf, but the style was the thing that got his attention.

He approached.

'What… is the music… of life…?'

Azrael turned back in a flash, looking for the person that spoke. With that voice it must have been either a Daedric Prince or a reanimated corpse, but there was neither behind him.

 _Oh wait…_ he started to realize. _"When questioned by the Black Door"… So, it was that portal that spoke._

He looked at it, and had the distinct feeling it really was the metal that spoke out of its own will. When he actually thought about what the assassin had said him to do and the question the Door asked him, he grinned darkly.

 _Was it really necessary to spoil the fun of answering? I would have responded "Silence" anyway, she could have just told me to add "My Brother" to the answer. Would have been enough._

'Silence, my Brother,' The Dunmer repeated.

'Welcome… Home,' whispered the Door.

The portal slowly opened on its own, without anything or anyone pulling it or moving it. It moved with a sinister creaking. Azrael waited for it to be wide open and then moved his first few steps into the last Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary of all of Tamriel.

As he entered, the Door closed shut behind him; the Dunmer looked back, raising an eyebrow, nodded sardonically at the portal and then moved forward, following a small corridor that went down and had a turn to the right at the end of the part he could see.

He looked forward as he got past the corner and saw room, illumined by flickering candlelight. As he went further he saw a table on the left, some basic wooden furniture on the right and, at the very end of the room, where another small passage could be seen, stood no other than the dark figure herself. Or, at the very least, someone that looked exactly like her. He hadn't seen her face, but the eyes and the lean frame were recognizable.

'Ah, at last,' she said, spotting him.

 _It's definitely her…_ he thought. The soft voice was unmistakable.

'I hope you found the place all right,' she continued.

The Dunmer noticed she was not wearing the hood she had in the shack, and took a closer look to her face. She was in the place with the least light in all the room, but he could see something. For example that she was blonde, among other things. He had already noticed the grey eyes and small chin back in the shack.

'I guess I did,' the Dark Elf answered. 'What happens now?'

'Well, what happens now is that you start a new life in the Dark Brotherhood. You're part of a family, after all. This, as you can see, is our Sanctuary. You won't find a safer place in all of Skyrim, so get comfortable.'

'Well, I am honored to be part of your Family…' he said, but stopped at the end, realizing he did not know the name of the assassin.

She smiled bleakly, showing she got the meaning of his hesitation.

'Astrid,' she said. 'And… Our Family, my dearest, our family. Together, united as one, the Dark Brotherhood can accomplish everything. But…' she added, narrowing her eyes. 'You must be anxious to get to work. I'm arranging a job, but I need a little bit more time. For now go see Nazir; he's got several, smaller contracts. Soon the Night Mother will arrive, and things around here are sure to get even more interesting.'

She said the last phrase in a cryptic tone, so much so that Azrael wondered if even now there was some knowledge that was cut off from his just for being a novice. That was not really correct, but the last time he joined an organization of that sort he got treated like a apprentice even after showing his abilities. The Dark Brotherhood was not like that, but was rather divided in two: assassins and master assassins, there were no novices. You either are a killer or you're not. No grey area.

'Ah, but one last thing…' Astrid added. 'A welcome home present.'

She pointed at the table, over which there was a small pile of clothes, perhaps armor.

'The armor of the Dark Brotherhood,' she explained, noticing the Elf's wondering expression. 'May it serve you well in all your… endeavors,' she grinned.

* * *

Sometimes in our lives we just don't feel at home in the place where we stand, even if that place is where we were born or where we grew up. It does not matter: sometimes we sense something's not right. That's an irritating feeling, because more often than not we are bound to that specific environment.

This is normal though. Your "house" and your "home" are not interchangeable, because the first is exactly what we sometimes mistake for our home, meaning the place where we live, have family or have whatever else strikes your fancy that keeps us there. But that's not your home, your home is somewhere you need to search with caution, because occasionally you can be received by the wrong persons, and that leads to suffering.

But what's a "home"? Well, that would take quite a bit to explain, but I think we all know that. Just to make a few examples and to keep it short, it's a place where the people you love stay, somewhere you are comfortable and calm in; it's normally where you'd want to return if you are tired of traveling or staying around. The wise usually manage to bring their home along with them, to make sure that wherever they might be, that place also becomes their home. The young and the inexperienced, however, often need a physical and static place to call home.

Azrael had the strong feeling he had finally found his first, true home after his new life began. He belonged nowhere before, now he had the feeling he was bound to that place, and not by Fate. He did not believe in Fate. Perhaps it was his own will.

Aside from his daughter back in Blacklight he had never had a family, or did not remember any. He felt embarrassed at first but relaxed afterwards noticing Astrid kept an eye on him while he was trying to fit into the new armor, which, by the way, fitted him quite nicely. The leader of the Sanctuary observed him intently and mindlessly at the same time, just like a sister does with her younger brother. Odd, since he was probably older than her, but strangely reassuring for him.

The Dunmer liked the new armor a lot. His old elven one was light but too stiff for how he fought, while the new one was made of hardened leather and cloth, making it way less resistant but allowing him to move more quickly. A lot more quickly. Obviously it did not offer the same protection as a thick plate of moonstone and iron, but it was more than enough. The times when his reflexes saved him were exponentially more than the ones when the armor did, and so he was not afraid.

The only thing he saved from his old equipment was his traveling cloak, his pitch black travel cloak that had been his only companion for so many journeys he had lost count. He made it himself, out in the wild, using the pelt of some wolves he ran into; he tanned it with his sword, as strange as that may sound, and he never gave it up to anyone for anything.

He was ready now, and stepped ahead. Astrid gave him an encouraging glance as he passed. He went through the small corridor and entered into the hall ahead, and heard laughter. His ears sprang straight, trying to listen to every sentence.

'Again, again! Do the part where he tries to buy you some candy!' said someone, an Argonian.

Azrael now saw all the of members on the Brotherhood, gathered in a circle with a small girl in the center of it. Some wore an armor similar to the one that was just given to the Elf, but others had different clothes. They were of different races, very different races. This struck the Dunmer.

'Okay, okay. Wait, here we go,' said the girl in the center, like she was preparing to act something. '"Ooh, you are such a pretty little girl. Would the sweetie like a sweetie? Oh yes, how about some chocolate?" "Oh yes, please, kind sir. My mama and papa left me all alone, and I'm so very hungry. I know a shortcut to the candy shop. Through this alley." "Oh yeah, very good. Very good. My it is dark down here. Oh, but you are so beautiful. Such a lovely smile. Your teeth... your teeth! No!"' and it all ended with the imitation of a scream of utter terror.

Another wave of laughter ran through the people surrounding her, Azrael himself grinned.

'Oh, Babette…' sighed a female Dunmer on the other part of the circle. 'But you are so wicked.'

'And what about you, Festus?' asked the Redguard near Azrael. He had a deep voice, eerily similar to the one of Azrael, but with the slightly odd intonation and roughness all Redguards have. 'How did that last contract turn out?'

'Oh, yes, please, old man. Regale us with your tales of wizardry..,' interrupted a Nord with grey hair, tall. Azrael noticed his strange smell.

The bald sorcerer the Redguard questioned now answered: 'Ah, the young and stupid, always mocking the experienced and brilliant,' said, clearly referring to his Nord colleague. 'My contract went very well, I'll have you know. Tried a new spell; little something I've been working on in my spare time. Came _this_ close to turning that priest inside out. Damned messy…'

'And what of your latest, Arnbjorn?' asked the she-Elf next to the Nord with grey hair. 'Something about a Khajiit? Merchant was it?'

Azrael noticed the eyebrows of the girl raising, and somehow knew it would have been a joke.

And here it came: 'Oh, a big doggy chasing a little kitty! How adorable…'

And yet again a laugh ran through the whole Brotherhood. It was almost infecting.

'I am not adorable, it was not funny, and he wasn't a merchant,' scowled the Nord. 'He was a Khajiit monk, a master of the Whispering Fang style. But now he's dead, and I have a new loincloth.'

Azrael shook his head, wondering how such a thing was possible.

 _This place is terrifying. Folk is laughing about how they killed the last person they set out to eliminate, and laugh even harder when mocking them. They are a gang of cruel murderers, and this place is horrific. But I like it, and like them even more._

Astrid respectfully kept out of sight, near the entrance of the corridor, and thought summoning Azrael had been one right move. With the dark armor of the Brotherhood, the leather boots and red gloves, the pitch black hood and the only slightly darker cloak he was truly dreadful.

 _He looks like death made flesh._

And it was the truth. For her, and for many others.


	19. Trouble Always Comes in Threes

'Wilhelm, you've got guests.'

'You say that like it's a bad thing.'

'These are not normal travelers.'

'What are they, then?'

Bassianus did not even need to answer. The door opened wider and three men entered the tavern, casting a wide glance at the place before stepping further.

They were Imperial soldiers, the armor was recognizable by the design, but the colors were a little darker than the average uniform the Legion used. The red of the cloth was darker, almost brown, and the metal plates used were of a darker steel as well. They bore the mark of the Empire on the chestplate, but other than that that there was no other difference. The swords were the same as the ones of every other soldier, same goes for the bows of their back. Nevertheless there was something rather mysterious about the three of them.

Wilhelm looked at the new guests as they walked towards the counter. They were incredibly serious, the typical expression of someone who prefers to maintain professional relationships.

'Three glasses of wine, innkeeper,' said the first.

Wilhelm quickly poured, and gave them one of the few bottles of cyrodilic wine he had left; it was very easily understandable they were Imperials and not Nords, both by the accent and the body structure. Bassianus casted a quick glance at the three men, but did not say a thing.

'Can I get you anything else?' asked Wilhelm after handing them the glasses.

'Nothing for now.'

The innkeeper walked away; he cleaned the room on the right, just to keep himself busy while these three men talked about their business. Bassianus remained there though; he wanted to at least learn what those three individuals were doing in Ivarstead.

'So, what have you two discovered?' asked one.

'Not a lot. We investigated the area, but there weren't any clues. Other than a body with its spine broken, obviously. What about you? Have you found anything?'

'Nothing. That one was a paranoid, or that's what the other people living there told me; he was deeply convinced someone wanted him dead. Can't deny he was right, in the end.'

'Damn shame. These leads are not taking us anywhere, just to other corpses that seem to have been killed by the same, invisible and uncatchable person.'

'Sometimes I ask myself if it is even worth it. Maybe we should return to Dragon's Bridge and report to Commander Maro; there's nothing else for us here.'

'That would be equal to failing the mission. We can't afford it, we just can't. We were given sufficient clues to follow, if we can't make anything out of them it's our problem.'

'The Commander might have more information by now though. There's a constant flow of them these days. The Brotherhood is on the razor's edge between survival and complete annihilation. There are some who want it dead, and feed us information.'

'Information alone will never be enough if we want to wipe them out. We need to track them down one by one and eliminate them, but they are silent and well camouflaged.'

'Especially this last one.'

'By the way, how did your man die?'

'A sword hit right between the shoulders. I did not believe my own eyes at first, how can someone stab someone else in the back with a sword? It looks like our mysterious killer can, and does that with stunning precision as well.'

'Which part of the day was it when he died?'

'Twilight most likely. The murderer ran off under the cover of darkness and the body was not found until the day after, which gave him plenty of time to escape. The owner of the mill swears she neither saw nor heard anything, which is strange, but confirms the pattern.'

'Ours was not different…'

'What was her name again? Betid, right?'

'Yes.'

'What happened to her?'

'Nothing apparently, until we found her corpse in her house. No one saw anyone beside her enter, but there were clear signs of a fight in the main room: furniture crashed on the floor, several objects scattered around the whole place, the clear sign of a dagger against the wall…'

'A dagger? Against the wall?'

'She was fighting back, probably trying to stab him, but her attacker was clearly faster and avoided the hit; she was thrown off balance and stumbled, hitting the wall instead of the aggressor. The corpse was near, the assailer must have used that moment to kill her.'

'And how did he do that?'

'Probably hurled her against the floor, with surprising strength as well. Her backbone was broken, there were lots of cuts on her skin as well, probably tears in the skin caused by the impact.'

'And it's the same as Ennodious? I mean, everything valuable taken from the body to make it look like a robbery gone wrong?'

'Yes, exactly. It looks like a recurring theme about this one. It works with the local investigation. They see the stolen goods and assume it's a thievery, but they are just thrown off track. These murders are clearly linked, and it's the same person committing them.'

'A person we can't track. We've lost him, again.'

'We never found him, to be honest. We found leftovers, if that's what the corpses are. He hits while nobody is looking, no one spots him doing anything suspicious. We're not even sure who he is-'

'We're not even so sure it's a "him".'

'No, we are: no woman could do something like that.'

'Alchemist can improve the strength of the body. They seem to be able to do anything these days.'

'I don' think so; I still believe it's a man, but that doesn't help much. We don't even know how he looks, what race he is… We know nothing, it's pointless to debate about that.'

'And we're there again. We can't drop the task, it's too important. We have to keep searching.'

'For what? Shadows?'

'He'll eventually hit again.'

'Oh, great, so we need to wait for someone else to die before we can stop this murderer… Are you out of your mind? How many must die before we can stop him?'

'If a few are to be sacrificed in order to save many more, it's worth it. Commander Maro said this himself when we came here.'

'We can't think like this! If we do, how are we better then those assassins? We'll not be. Might as well let them live, if we are to use certain methods to eliminate them.'

'I should report you for treason for even saying something like this!'

'Keep calm, boys, you're losing your nerve and nibbling at each other's throats out of anxiety. It's not worth it to fight like this when the real enemy is outside, probably doing something. We should take this opportunity to rest, not to fight.'

'You're right… Damn, I'm so nervous.'

'We're all nervous, it's normal. We are three man on the trace of a dangerous man, and a cunning one on top of that.'

'Let's face the truth: we're following a ghost.'

'That does not matter: duty calls, we can't refuse it.'

'Right. Let's…'

Bassianus tried to look away, but it was too late. He had approached too much, and they had seen him eavesdropping; he did not even try to move while the three soldiers stood up and went nearer to him, in an intimidating manner.

'Why were you eavesdropping?' asked one.

'What did you hear? Answer us!'

'I did not hear anything!' lied Bassianus. 'I was just looking your way by chance, I swear!'

'I don't believe you,' spit one soldier.

'Don't you dare lie to our face. We're members of the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor special security force! Now answer, citizen!'

More often than not an assassin is not a savior, he is a killer. But there are cases when the pattern the events follow is not linear, and sometimes death can be your savior. It's hard to think about it, and just the thought makes you feel guilty at times. But regardless, at times someone else can get sacrificed to save your own life, both literally and metaphorically.

Such was the case with poor Bassianus, that made the mistake of being curious and becoming overzealous because of it. When Aela advised Azrael from being too curious she was partially right. She said it brought trouble, but the Dunmer would face those issues with all means necessary. For Bassianus it was much different, and much more dangerous. He had no weapon, and the three soldiers holding him by the neck.

Until they heard a scream, coming from the outside. Coincidence? Luck? No one could tell. Maybe the cunning mind of a schemer.

'What was that?' asked a soldier. The one holding Bassianus let him go, and the man collapsed to the ground. 'It came from outside.'

'Narfi!' cried Wilhelm, bursting out of the room he as cleaning.

'What?' asked one of the soldiers. 'What are you talking about, civilian?'

'The beggar on the other side of the river!' stammered the innkeeper. 'It was his voice!'

'Weapons out, comrades, we'll get whoever it is whatever he is doing! Come on!' cried one, probably the leader of the group. He was the one who calmed his pals when they started fighting.

The screech of the swords was followed by the flap of the door against the wall outside. The three Penitus Oculatus agents looked where the scream came from and lounged in that direction with swords in hand and daggers at the ready.

Meanwhile, Wilhelm ran to Bassianus and helped him get up from the ground. He raised slowly, making sure nothing was broken. His leg got trampled on by one of the soldiers and hurt badly, but it looked like nothing more than a bad dent.

'You all right?'

'Aye, I am,' Bassianus answered, but then he asked back: 'Why was Narfi screaming that bad? What happened?'

'I have no bloody idea but I fear the worst. Come outside, we need to take a look!'

They bolted out of the inn and looked Narfi's shack on the other side of the river. There was no one to be seen around it, but it was impossible. The only standing walls of the hut were the ones in their direction, but even then they could have not hid perfectly a standing man.

'Where did those Imperials go?' asked Wilhelm.

'That's a good question. A better one is why the guards let them come in the village in the first place. They usually attack Imperial forces.'

'That's true. Hmm, some mystery surrounding them as well. But where in blazes have they gone now? Like… They raced off swords in hand not thirty seconds ago. I didn't even heard them scream.'

The two walked towards the river, carefully. Other people were approaching too, maybe because of the cries and the confusion. The three soldiers seemed to have disappeared, until…

'Mara's mercy, bodies in the river!'

Bassianus and Wilhelm looked where Temba was pointing from the upper part of the mill; it was a big rock that split the riverbed in two for a few meters. On the edge were two bodies. Two of the Imperials, clearly. The water was slowly turning red. The stench of blood was in the air.

'Wilhelm, what in Oblivion in going on?' screamed Klimmek, coming down towards them.

'We have no idea. Have you seen something?'

'After the first scream a few men dashed out of _your_ tavern, raced off to the other side of the river, or tried to… Two of them got shot in the neck, the third one disappeared behind that wall and has yet to come out.'

'Shot? With a bow?'

'Think so, we barely heard it.'

They approached the riverside. One of the two bodies got afloat and went rapidly toward the waterfall. A few second after it fell below, disappearing from sight, but leaving a red trail behind. The other was still stuck behind the stone, the shaft of a dark arrow coming out from his neck.

Narfi was not in sight, nor was the soldier. Wilhelm looked carefully around, but did not see any suspect signs nor traces of a fight. Almost all of Ivarstead was now on the riverside, staring at the shack on the other side.

'I'm going,' Bassianus said, taking off his boots and going into the water.

'We'll be here, should anything happened. Tread carefully, boy,' Wilhelm said.

He jumped in the river and swam, swam as fast as he could. The swift current was dragging him closer to the waterfall every second that passed.

 _Blast, I could have just used the bridge…_ he realized.

He reached the other side unharmed, but a lot closer to the waterfall than where he started. He did not even put his boots back on, he just ran towards the shack.

He ran ahead, not knowing what expected him on the other side. He left caution behind because he was not used to be careful, not in the sense that the situation required to stay alive. But no matter, he was not ready for a battle anyway; that day fortune smiled upon him.

He turned the corner, still running, but not for long. What laid just ahead of him gave him quite a scare.

Two corpses, fresh. One was the remaining Penitus Oculatus agent, lying on the ground in an unnatural position, supine, with a deep stabwound on the chest and a long slash that went from shoulder to shoulder. The second was Narfi, stretched sideways. He had a long and deep cut that went from his heart to the lower parts of the throat.

'Seeking trouble?'

Bassianus froze on the spot; the deep and glacial voice came from behind him, but he barely had the strength to move. He just turned a little, enough to cast a short glance at the figure in the corner of the shack.

'Have you humans got no self-protection instincts?'

'Dragonborn…'

'Not so loudly, now… You don't want them to hear you.'

Azrael stood up, and looked at the Nord bleakly. He was dreadful even standing there doing nothing: the old sword was always there, the bow too and the wolf cloak as well, but the black and crimson armor was new, and so were the bandoliers that hanged on his chest. They were full with short blades and small cruets filled with vermillion mixtures. From his back hanged the same elven quiver he had, but the arrows he now brought along had black vanes.

'Why have you come here?' the Dunmer insisted. 'Want to never see Fastred again?'

'How do you know…'

'It can be seen from a mile away, don't be ridiculous,' Azrael interrupted him. His deep and glacial voice suited his new, dark appearance very well. 'Now answer my question.'

'We heard a scream, we… we had to check!'

'Oh well… If that's the case, we'll have to make a deal, Bassianus.'

'A deal? What kind of deal?'

It happened in a flash: Azrael took and arrow from the quiver, nocked it, draw the bow at its full stretch in an instant and raised it. A second later the Nord had an arrow pointed right at his face.

'A very simple one,' replied the Dark Elf, darkly. 'You'll now return there saying they need something to burn the bodies, so they'll all run looking for it. I'm going to walk away, out of sight, and you'll never mention this encounter to anyone. Are we clear?'

'Y…Yes.'

'Good. Now go.'


	20. The Mad Guardian

'Say what you want, jester, but she won't be my leader.'

'I don't understand how a member of our great and glorious Family could refuse the guidance of the Unholy Matron. It's… Mad!'

'To the Void with your Unholy Matron, I won't change my opinion.'

'But the Night Mother is mother to all! It is her voice we follow, her will!'

Astrid was tiredly looking at her husband and that peculiar jester fighting about how much the Night Mother had the right to rule the Brotherhood. Then, as soon as the jester lowered his voice, she heard a single, soft and muffled thud. A footstep, coming from the entrance.

She looked at the corridor, and saw Azrael coming towards them. His eyes were narrowed, something he did very often when trying to make something out. He slowly lowered his hood and his face mask, shaking his head and gathering his long, raven-black hair. A strange crimson light flickered in his eyes. Curiosity? Or maybe something way more dark?

Nevertheless he joined the circle of people, and fixed his gaze on the jester, who was so focused on his speech about kinship he did not even notice the Dunmer coming in. It wasn't that strange: the Dark Elf had made little to no noise coming in, something that surprised Astrid a great deal.

Babette waved joyously at him as he came in, and Azrael made a slight movement with his head in response. It looked they already got acquainted, and got on well with each other on top. Astrid would have loved to continue thinking about how well the new member got along with the others, but the voice of the jester distracted her.

'Would you dare risk disobedience?' he asked Arnbjorn, like he was threatening him. 'And surely… Punishment?'

'Keep talking little man, and we'll see who gets punished,' groaned the Nord in response.

'Oh, keep quite you lumbering lapdog! This man has had a long journey, you could at least be civil!' scowled Festus, the bald sorcerer, who then turned to the jester and spoke to him in a way more respectful and formal tone: 'Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition.'

'Ooh…' answered a delighted Cicero. 'What a kind and wise wizard you are! Sure to earn our Lady's favor.'

Astrid decided it was time to cut to the chase. She was tired of that pitiful comedy, and now that Azrael was here there was no reason to keep waiting for the clown to finish.

'You and the Night Mother are of course welcome here, Cicero,' she thus said. 'And you will be afforded the respect deserving of your position as Keeper. Understood... husband?' she added glaring at Arnbjorn, who only groaned angrily.

'Oh, yes yes yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!' exclaimed the jester, dancing slightly, jumping on one leg at the time and clapping joyfully.

Astrid looked at Azrael, who stood silent at her side, without moving one millimeter or uttering a single word; he was breathing, and that was about it as far as his presence was concerned. He was casting piercing gaze at the jester though, his eyes half-closed and burning with a crimson light.

'But make no mistake,' Astrid continued, taking her eyes off the Dunmer. 'I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?'

'Oh yes, mistress. Perfectly! You're the boss,' confirmed the jester.

The clown himself seemed to lose interest in the conversation all of a sudden; the others looked at each other, but soon walked off. Astrid felt the gloved hand of Azrael touching her shoulder.

'Astrid…'

'Here you are,' she said, sighing. 'Good, I was done speaking with that muttering fool anyway. We've got some business to discuss.'

'I presume you've got a contract for me.'

'I do indeed,' she said, then started explaining. 'You must go to the city of Markarth, and speak with the apothecary's assistant. You'll probably find her in the shop, The Hag's Cure. The girl's been running her mouth, wants an ex-lover killed. She's apparently performed the Black Sacrament. Her name is Muiri. I need you to talk to her, set up the contract, and carry it out.'

The Dark Elf nodded, and then bend his head to the side slightly.

'Is there… anything else I should know?'

Astrid shook her head slowly.

'Just do whatever the contact wishes,' she said. 'Be professional, represent us well, and get the job done. Since it's your first contract,' she added, thinking it was a good thing to remind him. 'I'll let you keep whatever Muiri pays. She'll be generous, I'm sure. They always are.'

'Fine. I'll be off shortly.'

'Do you have something to do?'

'Just rest a bit here, maybe talk to the others. And… maybe it's better I introduce myself again to that clown over there.'

'Again? What's that about?'

'It's quite the tale. Want to hear it?'

'I'm all ears.'

Azrael nodded and leaned against a nearby stalagmite. He inhaled deeply, and then began.

'I was on the border of the Pale, some time ago. Five days ago, I think. I ran into a… rather peculiar sight: a jester, one out his of nuts on top of that, having a problem with the wheel of his cart; it had gotten, well, torn apart. Some fella that lived there refused to help him, and so I… interceded for the jester, explaining to that guy he only was a madman and that the sooner he moved away the better. I think you know where I'm getting at.'

'I do,' replied Astrid, grinning darkly.

'That farmer, Loreius was his name, poor soul, helped him the end. And then, just imagine, when I told the clown that help would come, he started dancing like nobody's business. He even gave me a nice amount of gold on top of that, which I later gave Loreius. I mean… If you had some Daedra-damned gold, why not just pay that poor guy to repair your wheel?'

'Well, that at least sounds like him,' replied Astrid, looking at the jester sideways. 'I think you should talk to him, as irritating it can be.'

The Dunmer himself casted a glance at Cicero, then looked at Astrid for a moment. He then placed a hand on her shoulder and stood up.

'Take care, Sister.'

Astrid touched his gloved hand as he withdrew it. She smiled, this time sincerely. She walked back, and noticed Arnbjorn sneering, shaking his head.

'Some problem with you, darling?' she asked.

'No,' answered the Nord, smirking. 'Just interested in how your dearest Elf handles himself with that fool over there.'

Astrid sat down next to him and she watched as the Dunmer approached the jester.

'May I?' asked Azrael, while Cicero was still looking intently at the sarcophagus.

The clown turned and a joyful, mad smile appeared on his face.

'Ooh… Another member of the Family! Hello, hello! So very good to meet you!' he said, but then he looked obliquely at the Elf and a strange light sparkled in his eyes. 'Wait, wait! I know you! Yes, yes! From the road! Cicero never forgets a face!'

'Me neither. So you were the man with the broken wheel, transporting… "your mother"?'

'I am! I am!' he cried. 'But not just my mother, our mother, right? The Night Mother! Oh, yes! And you helped me! You helped poor Cicero! You talked to Loreius, got him to fix my wheel! Oh, you may have pleased me, but you have surely pleased the Night Mother. And our mother, she will never forget.'

'I hope so. But… who are you, exactly? You were not that much talkative back at the farm.'

'Me? Oh, Cicero is just the Keeper! I… keep! I look after our matron, you see, the Night Mother. I keep her clean, and protected, and happy…' he said with an ecstatic smile. 'But I am not the Listener. Oh, no, there is no Listener, not yet! But some day, some day, some day I pray, that one will come to hear her say... The words. I brought her here to protect her! The Night Mother's crypt in Bravil was... desecrated. The Imperial Province is ravaged by strife. Nowhere there is safe, at present. So Cicero brought our Lady to her new home. Here! This is the only Sanctuary left in all of Skyrim, you see. Such was my... honor. As Keeper.'

'And what exactly are your duties as Keeper?'

'Oh, Cicero takes care of our Lady's body. Oils it, preserves it, keeps it safe. Makes sure nobody disrespects our Matron's coffin.'

Azrael nodded, frowning slightly. He then reacquired his normal and glacial expression and took his leave. 'It was nice talking to you. Take care, Cicero.'

'And you take care of yourself,' muttered the jester.

 _You had better protect yourself…_ the Dunmer thought. _Because one day your laughter will provide you a knife in your ribs. And if you do anything stupid, I'll be the one thrusting it._

Azrael caught a glimpse of Astrid and her husband laughing; he grinned and went towards them, leaning against the rock wall and waiting for them to stop.

'That was some good acting right there,' complemented Astrid. 'He might be the jester, but you are a far more efficient actor. You showed such a genuine pleasure everybody outside of us would have been fooled.'

'Did I?' said the Elf. 'Well, I think we should ask Arnbjorn his opinion if we want to hear something good. Come on, doggie, what do you think of Cicero and the Night Mother?'

The Nord frowned. 'The witless fool and his pet corpse? Take a guess.'

Both Astrid and Azrael laughed darkly. The Dunmer looked back at the jester, who was whispering endlessly at the locked coffin. He then turned towards at the other two, bowed slightly and left without saying another word. Arnbjorn and his wife looked at him as he walked away.

Azrael was deep in though, as he always was. He waved faintly at Gabriella, who was passing by, and gave her a weak smile before walking away. He then saw Veezara coming his way.

'Brother,' both said, and then went forward.

The Dunmer entered the upper room, which most noticeably contained a big table and the alchemy lab. But he was there to talk. There was a specific person who never left that room.

'Azrael!' she greeted him as he entered. The dark-haired girl looked at him, showing her big and menacing vermillion red eyes.

'There you are, you eerie little girl,' Azrael said, getting closer.

'It's the second time we see each other and you already mock me?' she said, faking annoyance.

'You started mocking me straight up from the first time, so drop the politeness lecture.'

'Well, maybe you're right. So, anything new?' she asked, crossing her little legs.

'Nothing, except that your poison proved deadlier than you said it to be.'

'I don't like to boast about my results.'

'You don't need to either. Those mixtures speak for themselves.'

'I'm flattered; if I was still alive I think I would even blush.'

'Yeah, yeah, always on about that. You are a bit old to blush anyway.'

'I guess. I'm also terribly thirsty… Would you…?'

'Don't even try.'

'Ah, well, nobody's willing these days…' she smiled malevolently. 'What do you think of the Night Mother, Azrael? You've never heard of her before, right?'

'No, not once before talking to Astrid. And thus I'm quite confused by all this. What about you?'

'Two hundred years ago, I would have lain down my life for the Unholy Matron,' the girl sighed. 'But that is an age long since passed. Astrid is my matron now.'

'Makes sense, I suppose.'

'You're headed somewhere, right?'

'I am.'

'The Hag's Cure, right? Be sure to browse in that shop, it's full of good things, some may even turn out to be useful to you.'

'I'll be sure to take a look. See you, little girl.'

'See you, overgrown baby.'

Azrael proceeded down the stairs. The short exchange of words gave a little more meaning to his day, as now he went ahead to take care of business. He had done his part, time to see Nazir. The Redguard was sitting in the room beside, where the others usually had their meals, but the Dunmer had yet to share one with them. He was still a stranger in the end. The dark-skinned assassin was rearranging some scraps of paper.

'I see you have your hands full,' observed Azrael coming closer.

The Redguard sighed. 'So many contracts, so little time.'

'Well, some of them are done. The three targets are dead.'

'Are they?' he said, raising his head. 'Good. How were they?'

'Narfi tried to run, but had no chance.'

'Congratulations. You slaughtered an emaciated beggar in cold blood. You are truly an opponent to be feared,' commented the Redguard. 'And?'

'Ennodius tried to run as well, but had an even slimmer chance of escaping.'

'Good. And I hope you were careful in that lumber mill. Those splinters and rusty nails can be quite nasty. And the last one… Betid right?'

'She's dead as well.'

'Of course she is. I heard the mining business is extremely… cutthroat. Your payment, for a job well done.'

He handed the Elf a healthy amount of coin, so much that the purse seemed to be on the point of breaking. Azrael quickly raised an eyebrow at the sight of that, thinking for how long he would have been able to live with just that. He put the gold away, and thanked.

Azrael would have then gone to his bed and rested. Meanwhile, in the Sanctuary, the arrival of the Night Mother caused only minor excitement. Nothing really substantial had happened, and things looked like they would have continued as they went for years.

* * *

Such was the case for both Astrid and Arnbjorn, lying in their bed and waiting to fall asleep.

'What do you think about the new one?' asked Astrid.

'That he is a dangerous type, one that has his own ideas. His sense of humor gives it away,' answered her husband. 'Were you thinking of something?'

'I'm just worried. The Night Mother's arrival proved nothing important, but maybe it is only the first step of something bigger that has yet to unfold.'

'You worry too much. What could possibly happen?'

'I don't know, and that's what makes me nervous the most. I feel like I no longer have control on the Family, and I don't even know why I feel that way.'

'We were just talking about a certain Elf…'

'Individuals like him are the ones that led our Family for generation after generation, and we should not claim the right to judge our Brother. He's mysterious and silent, but he has charisma. Lots of it. I think everybody hear would follow him into he Void and back, if given the chance. It worries me. It's an amount of influence I never had over the Brotherhood in the many years I've led it. Do you think we should get rid of him?'

'We'd better be ready for it. That day might come, and it might be sooner than you think.'


	21. A Fair Exchange

'That looks beautiful… How much is it?'

'You have good taste, it's one of my finest pieces yet. That comes for five hundred gold.'

'Five hundred? What's the gem in the middle? A piece of malachite?'

'No, it's an emerald, one of the best I ever had. It's absolutely flawless.'

'Three hundred.'

'Five hundred.'

'Three hundred and fifty.'

'Seventy-five?'

'Three hundred and seventy-five it is, then.'

'You Imperials are good at bartering. It's–'

There was a sudden commotion coming from behind them, then the world around them seemed to become a waking nightmare all of a sudden. There was a scream, right behind Margret, and a freezing grip blocked her body while she wondered what was happening. She heard the twang of an arrow being released, then a loud cry, followed by the hiss of the projectile flying through the air.

Eventually, a deafening shriek of agony echoed through the walls of the City of Stone.

'I die for my… people…' mumbled the dying man in his last breath.

Margaret turned and saw a dark-haired man, wielding a dagger, lying on the ground; a small trickle of blood was flowing in between the stone slabs of the street; the fletching of an arrow emerged from the nape of his neck. His white worker shirt was splattered with red. The hand that held the dagger was stretched, as if trying to reach for something. Margaret realized that the sought something was probably her throat.

In the midst of the chaos around her, people screaming and running everywhere, she caught the glimpse of a dark figure far back, against the wall. He stood tall, perfectly still and focused; he held an elven bow in his left hand, recolored dark grey instead of the strange yellow Moonstone tend to retain. His face was covered by a black hood and a dark cowl, and nothing could be seen of it aside from his red eyes. He moved nimbly down into the streets.

Margret lost sight of him as soon as a city guard appeared and shoved her aside. Not too gently either.

'By the gods, the Forsworn are here in the city!' a woman cried.

A large crowd was piling in front of the market, trying to see what was happening. A group of guards had arrived on the spot and kept the people away, swords in hand. Two of them went closer to the body and bend over it, perhaps analyzing it.

'Everyone, stay back!' the soldier ordered. 'The Markarth City Guard has this all under control, there are no Forsworn here!'

Margret got a little farther from the mob, trying to breathe. She was still shocked and had little to no real understanding of what was happening, beside that her life had just been saved. She looked at the wall again, but her shadowy savior was nowhere in sight.

* * *

The doors of the inn opened wide. A man wearing a white shirt and black trousers, most likely a worker, ran in.

'Hide, people! There's a massacre on the streets!'

A wave of commotion ran through those sitting all around the tavern as the man stumbled and fell to the ground; he stood up and then fell again. He crumbled on the counter, where two Nords grabbed him by the armpits and made him stand up.

'What is happening, Divines' sake?' asked a man from the rear of the inn.

'The Forsworn attacked a woman in the streets!' panted the man, barely breathing.

'The situation is completely under control,' said a city guard entering. 'Don't listen to that man. A madman attacked a free citizen of the Empire and he paid his life for it.'

'The guards intervening in a brawl between normal people? That's a new one,' muttered a man behind the counter, distant enough from the guard not to be heard.

Muiri just scowled and looked away. Death, death, always death. Was there a place where people didn't murder each other every single day? No, it wasn't likely. Even all that shouting just annoyed her; nothing more could have scared her, and certainty not more massacre and more blood. Every day more and more people died at the hands of the Forsworn. She didn't care if they did it outside or inside the city.

While slowly turning her attention back to the guard and the man debating, she caught a glimpse of a shadow in a darkened corner, staring at her. She felt a vibe going down her spine, but she ignored it and continued watching the main center of attention.

'There was bloodshed out there! And you did nothing! Someone else has to do it!' cried the man.

'How do you dare say something like this? The city guard took down the armed man. If everyone else would have done it, then it would be murder. A serious crime,' replied the guard.

'You did absolutely nothing! Do you hear me, by Talos, do you hear me?'

The guard grabbed him by the waist and whistled. One of his comrades came in a second later, and helped his mate seizing the man, who fought desperately; he threw punches in all directions, kicked everything around him aside from his opponents' legs, and shrieked terribly.

'You are guilty of treason, insult to a soldier and of believing in Talos. To the cell with you, and you'll regret this when the Thalmor get their hands of you.'

The crowd both in and outside the inn was staring nervously at the scene. The guards dragged the screaming man away by force, while other soldiers covered them as they went up through the street. Two more closed the door of the tavern shut, and a heavy silence filled the whole place.

Muiri listened as everybody gathered in small groups and began discussing about what had happened, but her gaze was fixed on the shadow she saw leaning against the wall: it was now moving towards her, not taking his eyes off her. He approached slowly and sat down next to her, calmly, without greeting or even taking his hood or face mask off.

'Why are you looking at me like that?' she asked, feeling a bit uneasy.

The stranger folded his arms and looked at her intently before answering. When he did, he did it in a dark, glacial tone. 'The Dark Brotherhood has come, Muiri.'

She almost chocked as she tried to answer, not even bothering wondering how he could know her name. The words "Dark Brotherhood" just wiped away the vast majority of her thoughts. A glimmer of hope shone so brightly in her mind that it pushed away every bad feeling she had.

'The Dark Brother… Oh… My goodness, you are really here,' she said, hesitating. 'The Black Sacrament… It actually worked?'

'Obviously,' replied the assassin. His cold tone had a strange, soothing note; his inner tranquility calmed her at the same time. 'Now, tell me what you need.'

'What I need?' she hissed. Her rage started boiling in her veins again. 'What I need it for Alain Dufont to die. I want him hunted down and murdered like the dog he is.'

She stopped, restraining herself from crying even though hot tears were filling her eyes. Meanwhile the assassin stayed perfectly silent, and did not utter a single word or shifted a single inch.

'I didn't know it when we were… with each other, but Alain is actually the leader of a band of cutthroats. Bandits,' she finally continued. 'They're hold up in some old Dwarven ruin, Raldbthar; it's near Windhelm, they use it as their base, and where they stage their raids. I want you to go to that ruin, find Alain Dufont, and kill him. I don't care about his friends, do whatever you want with them, but Alain has to die!'

The Dark Brother nodded slowly.

'It will be done,' he whispered.

'Excellent,' said the woman, relieved. 'Once Alain is dead I'll pay you, in gold. I've saved up a bit, I hope that will do. But…' she continued, and after trying to stay silent she surrendered and spit the rest out. 'There is one more thing, if you're interested.'

'I'm listening.'

'If you can, I want you to kill someone else, as well. You don't have to, not as part of our deal, but if you do… I'll pay you even more,' she said in one breath. 'It's Nilsine Shatter-Shield, in Windhlem. If Nilsine dies too… I'll make it worth your while.'

Muiri stayed silent, out of words. She said more than her mind was able to bear. She thought about what to say to the assassin for several weeks, but now that he came she forgot all the things she wanted to say, and even forgot to keep perfectly severe. The Dark Brother, on the other hand, was exactly what she would have wanted to be in that moment: calm and cool.

'You hold a particular grudge against these two, do you?' asked the assassin.

She was quite shocked by that sentence. She never expected him to get down to personal matters, and was unsure if that was a good thing or not.

'I do.'

'Tell me the full story, then. Why do you want Alain dead?'

She shouldn't have, but couldn't resist. She wanted to speak, she needed to speak.

'I went to Windhelm to see the Shatter-Shields, they were old and dear friends and… in mourning. Friga was killed recently, murdered. I met Alain then, in a tavern while I was drinking my sadness away. He was handsome, and charming… He said I was the "beautiful lily" of his dreams. He made all the pain just go away. But it was all lies…' she muttered, struggling again against her boiling tears. 'Alain used me. He ruined my name, destroyed my friendship with the Shatter-Shields… Do you know why Alain was in Windhelm?'

 _No, but you're going to tell me, aren't you?_ Azrael thought.

'He heard about Friga's murder,' continued Muiri, answering her own rhetorical question. 'He wanted to befriend her family in their grief, and rob them blind! Alail used me to get close to my friends, and now they all think I'm some kind of… monster!' And, with a last, desperate breath, she added: 'Alain Dufont took my life, and now I'm taking his.'

The Dunmer looked at her for a second, analyzing every shift in her expression. He stayed quiet to a little bit more, giving her time. _A fair exchange…_ he thought, raising his head a little. Only then he continued.

'And Nilsine Shatter-Shield? Why must she die?' he asked.

'Don't you see? I was like a daughter to Tova!'

 _Well, I do not. Firstly I have no clue of what your relation was with them, and secondly… you just named someone I didn't know before. She ought to be the mother most likely,_ reasoned the Elf.

'And… A sister to Nilsine and Friga. But the family refuses to believe my innocence, no matter what I say. Couldn't they understand that I was used? That I was grieving for Friga too?' she sobbed. 'No, they treated me like garbage, threw me away. With Nilsine dead, maybe Tova will realize what she's lost, maybe she will see I was as much of a daughter as the others. And if not… may she drown in her own tears.'

 _This sounds more like one of those killings that Babette said I should do "without thinking". It's totally stupid, killing the other daughter of a mother that lost her first one just to… Nevermind, "do those without thinking". That not-quite-young child certainly knows how the world goes._

Azrael raised from the chair, looking at the door.

'Anything else?' he asked, without turning.

'I… I planned to kill Alain myself. Nilsine too. But lost my nerve… I even brewed a special poison, Lotus Extract; maybe you could use it?'

She handed the Dunmer two phials filled of a dark green substance; he grabbed them and looked at them for a second before slipping them into the bandoliers on his chest.

'Just coat your weapon with it and then… You maybe get the idea,' Muiri finished.

She bowed her head, unable to resist longer. Hot tears were flowing onto her cheeks, she tasted the saline water on her lips. A short sob escaped her, but she suppressed the next one with stoic determination. She wiped the tears away and looked up again.

But the assassin was no longer there.

She looked around, sweeping her gaze across the inn. Nothing. There were people whispering, probably still talking about the events from earlier. That attack could have been on anyone's lips for days, if not weeks. She didn't care though. All she cared about was the assassin, but he wasn't in sight. She couldn't tell exactly how much time she had looked down, but it didn't seem enough for someone to completely disappear.

'Are you well?' asked a woman, coming towards her.

'I… I think so,' muttered Muiri. 'It's just… I was talking to someone, and he left. I… Didn't even see or heard him going away.'

'The hooded one, by chance?'

'How… How do you know? Were you spying?'

'No, I was looking for him. He just saved my life from certain death, out there in the street.'

'Oh…' gasped Muiri. 'You were the one attacked!'

'That I am,' answered the woman. 'He saved my life: shot an arrow right between the madman's shoulders and took him down. I would be a corpse if not for him, but he left. I wanted at least to thank him, but he didn't give me the chance. Was he looking for you?'

'He… kind of was, yes.'

'What did he want from you?'

'That's private.'

'Fine. And… what's your name, girl?'

'Muiri.'

'Would you please do me a favor?'

Muiri smiled darkly, recalling the assassin's phase and repeating it: 'I'm listening.'

'Will that stranger come back to you?'

'Without doubt.'

'Then, if you could, I wanted you to thank him on my behalf. I'll be leaving in a few days, and I don't know if he'll be back by the time, so… Would you do this for me?'

'I will.'


	22. Fate, the Greatest Deceiver

'Hey, boss, you got a minute?'

'What do you want, Glaver?'

'We been to Windhelm a couple of hours past, plannin' the next heist. All good, but we found something interesting.'

'Spit it out.'

'Someone's murdered that other friend of that girlfriend of yours… Muri?'

'Muiri,' Alain corrected him, smirking. 'Good. Must be that killer from the city.'

'That's not him, boss. She was killed by someone else, someone that didn't leave a single carve on her body. Well, two scratches on her neck. Bone was broken.'

'So… Someone's out to bring justice here.'

'What, boss? Justice?'

'Don't you find it strange that someone other than the murderer of Windhelm started taking revenge on another members of the Shatter-Shields? That is not a coincidence. Try to follow the events, and find the line. Muiri got rejected by the family, and now they are staring to die? That sounds awfully suspicious, doesn't it?'

'I… I don't think I'm following, boss.'

'Good gods, you're stupid… I'll put it even simpler: someone's coming for us. Soon.'

* * *

It takes some wit to deceive someone, and that skill can be used in other areas. For example, connecting series of events that could appear utterly disconnected to others. Alain Dufont was a bare-faced liar, a robber, a cutthroat and a bandit, but he was not stupid.

And Azrael knew it.

 _A frontal attack won't work. They're going to hear me, and they're going to come for me. I can't defeat them all at the same time. I need a plan._

He stood twenty meters or so behind a bandit guarding the entrance, and he saw three others gathered on the stairs beyond. He remained there, thinking of some plan to take them out.

 _And… If I tried the new trick and kill them silently? Veezara says it works, and pretty well. But how do I do that… I guess I won't do that much noise if I suffocate him._

And forward he went, sword in hand and with the arm ready to bolt at the quiver on his back. He approached his enemy, moving silently and slowly. He was breathing heavily, and thanked the strong wind covered the little noise he made. His enemy had a torch, so he needed to take him down quietly and not raise suspicion among his mates. Just imagine how they would have reacted if the light suddenly went out.

The enemy was close, so very close…

Azrael stretched his arms, bringing a hand in position to cover his enemy's mouth. The bandit saw the hand and turned his head around, but too late. His body never turned.

The Dunmer tightened the grip, his strong bicep providing all the strength needed. The bandit kicked around, hoping to hit his aggressor, but could not manage it. His strength waned as the air stopped flowing through his throat, and his heart acted against him, beating more quickly and asking for more air. Something that he could not provide.

The outlaw fell to the ground, fainting, but Azrael didn't loose the grip until he felt the heart stopping.

He killed. Again. And again, he did it with glacial calculation and cold heart.

As he thought, the torch if the bandit lowering attracted the attention of his colleagues; the Dunmer listened carefully, moving slowly towards the edge of the dwarven stairs. They had stopped discussing, but did not seem particularly interested.

'Poor idiot…' said one. 'Can't even hold a torch.'

'With a wind like this?' replied another, a woman. 'You can't expect him to keep it lit forever.'

'Shut up, we all know you've got a soft spot for him,' laughed the third one. 'That doesn't change the fact that he is a dimwit.'

'Guess who's talking? The most brilliant of the group!'

'What problems…'

The bandit stopped suddenly. The twang of a bow, the hiss of an arrow and the thunk of the projectile hitting its target. The target was the first bandit that spoke, who wore a heavy steel armor and was covered on almost the entirety of the body by thick plates of metal. The arrow sank right in the thin space between his pauldron and the helmet, crushing the collarbone. Half of the shaft still emerged when the projectile stopped piercing the flesh.

'Divines' sake!' cried the other, but she barely had the time to move.

Another arrow got nocked and released, and hit her in the back; the last bandit saw a dark figure standing over them, gazing down and aiming a bow at him. He could do nothing. Seconds later the black vanes of an arrow were coming out of his chest, his ribcage crushed by the impact. He died on the spot.

* * *

'Oh…' murmured the thug. 'What do we do, then?'

'Just go check the entrance and see if it's all right, you idiot!' hissed Alain Dufont.

The bandit turned around and ran. If the boss said something, you had better do that. That was the only law around that place. Alain was the brain, the others were the hands and the weapons.

The thug ran up the corridor, up to the flame trap they used to cook skeevers. Yes, they used a dwemer trap to cook meat. That is something that represents a group of common bandit perfectly: they're not intelligent, just clever. The thug went past the trap.

Ahead of him there was the stair that led from the dwemer doors to the lower level.

 _Oh… Tain was supposed to guard here, wasn't he?_ the thug tried to remember.

But there was no sign of his fellow. The stairway was really dark, illumined barely by the dwarven lamps on the pillars, which gave off a dim, white light. Nothing could be seen, though.

 _Tain must have fallen asleep. Again. The boss will take his skin and hang it on the wall next time he does that. How does he even sleep so much?_

The thug mumbled some curses while going through the open door, past which was the bedroll where Tain used to stay for the vast majority of both day and night. He was about to look towards it, but could not.

A dreadfully strong arm gripped his chin, while another covered his eyes. They both rotated. The neck of the thug got snapped.

He was brought to the ground by the same hands that ended his life. Not far enough, on the bedroll, lied Tain. If you just took a glance, he might have looked asleep, but there was a splash of blood on the cloth and on the floor near it.

* * *

'Hey, boss, we've got what you wanted.'

'Let me see,' ordered Alain, taking the parchment from the thug's hand. He read the report, frowning slightly, and then sighed. 'These are grave news.'

'The murderer seems to be on our tracks. He arrived in the city the night past. He slept at the Cornerclub, asking some Dark Elves about our whereabouts. Then, Nilsine died. Seems strange, if you ask me' the bandit said, looking at his chief. 'Boss, you think he's coming for us?'

'He is, without the slightest doubt.'

'And?'

'I sent your fellow to check the entrance, see if everything was fine. He's not returned yet, but I trust he'll be back soon. Meanwhile you'll prepare to pack all our goods and move out.'

'What? We're leaving?'

'That killer is skilled, and I suspect much more so than he was able to prove thus far. I'm not taking any risks, so we'll leave and cover our tracks, and when the time comes we'll strike back and kill him. Fighting a murderer in our own home is fighting on his terms.'

Alain was a smart one. As a bandit he understood that, unlike guards or guardians, who are comfortable fighting in their own strongholds, an assassin does not like to fight on his own land. He prefers to fight somewhere else, in enemy territory, where he really excels and has the advantage.

Unfortunately, it was too late. Alain alone might have escaped him, but the net of informers he had wasn't good enough. An entire army is stronger than one man only if it acts as one man. And Azrael, a lone hunter, was stronger than Alain only because he did all by himself. That would have been the Assassin's advantage for his entire life, and his principle: if you can't have that previously mentioned army that acts as one, it's better to act alone.

* * *

And, while Alain was giving orders to his thugs, Azrael advanced silently. He spotted three more enemies ahead, and had the same problem as before: not alerting the others. One was trying to fall asleep, and that gave him a few seconds where he would not have been able to react, but waiting for him to begin his nap would have taken too much time.

He decided to act quickly. And mercilessly.

His sword was a bit big for what he had in mind; he had been cursing himself over and over since he entered the ruin.

" _Daggers are not deadly"… Yeah, yeah, if you stab someone in the ribs a sword is better, but to cut someone's neck? Damn, a dagger would have been so much better._

The first of the bandits leaned against a nearby wall and took a deep breath. The Dunmer flattened against the wall himself and crept as near as he could. He stood, holding his breath, motionlessly, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His plan was, as always, precise and made with cold reasoning and careful thinking. He would have used emotions and feelings to complete his plan.

As soon as the bandit moved, his own arm flung.

The blade hissed bleakly, and the shiny steel blinked darkly in the torchlight.

The bandit didn't even see it coming. No one else but Azrael saw the swing, fast as it was. The sword touched the man's flesh with incredible speed, cut the neck clean from the shoulders and made it fly away. A blood spurt came out, but not even a groan could be heard.

'What the…' howled the other bandit.

It was now that the Dark Elf's trap snapped. In his glacial reasoning he played with feeling and sensations, and one of the most easily exploitable was fear. Toying with the minds of Men and Mer alike was and would have always been one of his favorite pastimes, and at times it really came handy. Deceiving the mind, something the like of Alain did, is dangerous; but deceiving emotions? There is little to no risk involved, if one knows how to do it.

Deceivers do not believe in fate. They don't need it. But sometimes destiny, or something close to it, rises up against them. Fate is the worst enemy of deceivers, simply because it's the best one around. When someone uses the lies of destiny to his, or her, own advantage… He or she becomes impossible to stop. It's as simple as that. Maybe his ability to follow and tread onto fate's web was that little thing that made Azrael the cold and cruel killing machine he was known to be. His mind before all else transformed him into the Assassin, the weaver of doom.

Anyway, what's truly important is that, driven by fear, the bandit ran towards his friend. He looked around and searched in vain for the killer. His mind was clouded by dread, his vision blurred by terror, his reflexes dulled by a terrifying fright. He never saw the blow coming.

One second later the long blade of the sword pierced his throat and came out from the nape of the neck, dripping blood. The eyes of the man were wide open, most likely in a last movement of unconscious thinking. Azrael held the handle of the sword tight, and looked at the ground beneath him. Only the sound of the drops of blood confirmed him the success.

'What in blazes…' muttered the bandit on the bed. He barely had had the time to point his feet on the ground, let alone grab any kind of weapon.

His fate was sealed. His death sentence bore the signature of destiny itself.

* * *

'But, boss, it'll take some time. Will we be able to do everything before he comes?'

'We must. Otherwise we'll be slaughtered like bloody ducks, and I'm no duck. Is that clear?'

'Yes, boss. What shall we bring along then?'

'All the gold and the jewels we can. If we, by chance, have to start over, those are the things that might be of the most use. You shall all bring your weapons, and everything else we can. I would have arranged a couple of pack mules if I had had the chance, but now it's too late.'

'Right. We'll spread the word and get ready. Have we…?'

The hiss of an arrow, the crack of its head breaking against the ground.

'What the…? There!' said one of the two thugs who was with Alain.

The two brutes moved towards the arrow, while Alain stayed where he was, looking around but not understanding where the projectile might have come.

'What's that?' he asked.

'It's an elven arrow, with… dark grey fletching. It came from…'

The thing that Azrael always brought along was his dreadfully cruel sense of humor. If that was on purpose or not it's for his successors to judge. If a bunch of bandits wonders about where an arrow came from he would have answered them. In his own, twisted way.

In the room echoed the whining of metal. After a brief second a new arrow came from above, where the previous one also came from. But this new one was not like the first one: it was huge, two meters long or so, and as sharp as a razor. The noise it produced was not a hiss, but a much louder noise, almost like a distant thunderclap.

The gigantic bolt landed on the first bandit's leg, rent through it and then tore it apart from the rest of the body. The flying leg, and the huge projectile trapped in it, rolled over and crushed the other thug under their weight, making him fall to the ground and then crushing his chest.

Alain looked up, where complete darkness was. He had completely forgotten about the two dwemer ballistae that were up there, always ready to fire. Question was, who used them?

His cruel sense of humor encouraged Azrael to answer the question of the bandit leader.

Alain Dufont looked forward and saw the grim shade of the top of the stairs, where the ballistae were. The figure calmly stepped ahead and fell down, landing on one knee and absorbing the impact with both hands. It slowly stood, and then revealed the crimson eyes.

A dark suit of cloth, leather and metal shrouded the body and the face of the assassin; in the shadow around him the metal shone bleakly, and the pieces of black leather looked as if invisible. On the chest of the murderer hanged some bandoliers filled with vials and tiny flasks, filled with mixtures of various colors. On his back hanged a grey, elven bow and a quiver filled with arrows, arrows that had black fletching.

 _It's him,_ the deceiver realized. _It's too late._

'Well…' said Alain Dufont. 'You must have all of those annoying gods on your side to have made it this far, whoever you are. Even I have to admit that's pretty impressive.'

The not-quite-famous last words.

The assassin did not answer, and just drew his blade. The metal blinked, darkly. The bandit leader grabbed his hammer, which he stole from the Shatter-Shields, and raised it. With a loud yell, a last barbaric shriek, he lowered it; he aimed for the head of the murderer.

Azrael did not back off, but instead dashed ahead, closer to his enemy, so close that he could shove both of the man's arms with his shoulder. He winded up the thrust. Alain quaked under the shoulder blow of his enemy, and the handle of the war-hammer escaped him grip. Finally, the Dunmer stabbed him in the belly.

The last thing Alain Dufont felt was his flesh consuming as if burning.

 _Poison…_

Lotus Extract.


	23. Something big

Darkness.

Silence.

The smell of decay.

The small hall, probably a subterranean lake that dried out in the eons, was dark. The air was still; no noises came, and they had to put out the torch. It was consuming all the breathable air. The stench of marrow and rotten corpses was in the air, and it was suffocating.

'How long are we going to wait?'

'I do not know. I don't even know how long we've been in here.'

'Is this worth it, master?'

'If they come, it will.'

Sitting on the rock covered of moss, the Breton couldn't help but remember what had led him to that moment and to that place.

* * *

It all had started four months before.

'Amaund Motierre.'

The Breton turned, and saw the person he had been expecting: another Breton, with long white hair. The old man pointed at a small room on the left, and he followed him. Amaund made a gesture at Rexus, telling him to come in.

'Is your servant worthy of trust?' asked the old Breton.

'Absolutely.'

They entered the small room and closed the door. There was a small group of people inside, including a masked man, wearing a Cyrodilic suit of light armour. Apart from him, all others wore expensive and very elegant clothes. They were tight in that chamber, which wasn't designed to contain more than five or six people. Now they were ten, two of those with a light but still bulky suit of armor.

'Why have you summoned us, Eduard?' asked a woman to the old man. She had a golden circlet on her head, a very costly one.

'Our spy,' said Eduard, pointing at the masked man, 'says that it all ended up as a stalemate. The state of things will not change. Nothing will change.'

'As always,' murmured another man.

'My lord, I'd like to point out that "as always" does not do this situation justice,' pointed out the spy. 'The political deals and other treaties are not stuck. Worse, they are frozen. The tension at the court is high, as you all know, and the city is getting more nervous as we go on. Apart from the Thalmor that patrol our country day and night, there are other forces on the move. Plots, schemes and the people planning to see their ideas come true are constantly making their moves and checking every action of their opponents. We're in a free for all deadly game, here.'

'Where are you getting at?' asked a woman.

'The Empire is weak, trembling, and there seems to be no way out of this… feebleness. The state is disintegrating, civil war is in the air. If there is a collapse in the political situation here at the court, we're not certain how the populace would react. They could rebel, or leaders may rise from the lower classes and assail the court. The Legion wouldn't stand a direct attack, now. And that's not considering that the Thalmor would surely exploit the unstable situation to take over the Empire completely. Our quaking land cannot stand another war. Not now.'

'Listen, friends, I think we've come to the end of it,' said Eduard.

'What do you mean?'

'The situation is blocked, and until something big happens, absolutely nothing will change. We need to act, and quickly, or this place will become Oblivion itself. And this time for good. We need something that could shift all things, that could turn the tide on out side. Because now… Now we just need to look at where we live, look at what Cyrodiil has become. The heart of the Empire is falling apart, and we're unable to do anything about it.'

'Fine, you built enough tension. Get to the point.'

Eduard pounded his fist onto the table.

'We need to kill the Emperor.'

* * *

They met again two months past. Fifty-seven days to be precise. Their moral was trembling.

'Can we do this?'

'I don't think we can. Eduard tried to act, and you all saw what happened. He still hangs outside the palace, strong by the neck. And look who's beside him? His spy.'

'We should back out.'

'And waste their lives?' burst one of the men. 'They gave up everything for the sake of the mission, and now we just abandon the task because it's too dangerous? Not in Oblivion. We'll carry out what they began, to the very end, even if we'll all end up dying.'

'Then feel free to charge Titus head on.'

'The Penitus Oculatus won't even let him close.'

'Just stop, Divines' sake!' cried a woman. 'This is not going anywhere, and we have something huge enough ahead of us. It's of no use to jump at each others throats right now. We need to think, think of someone strong enough to kill an Emperor.'

'And who is strong enough? Let's hear it.'

'There are organizations, illegal ones, that could help with out task. They'd do anything for money, and we're not short of that at least. No yet.'

'And what are our options? The Thieves Guild does not accept murders as jobs, the Fighters Guild will execute us if we dare say a word about killing a ruler, and the Mages Guild the same. The pitiful bands of cutthroats that blight the streets in these times are not even worth the try.'

'You skipped one,' Motierre said.

'Which one?'

'The Dark Brotherhood.'

* * *

Then, thirty-five days after, he had got waken in the heart of night.

'Amaund.'

'What'

'Amaund, wake up.'

'Why? Is there something wrong?'

'Eduard's wife calls you. She says you need to leave. Now.'

'And… And my things? I'm not ready to go, and not even knowing where to.'

'Rexus has packed all the things you might need, and is waiting for you with Eduard's wife. They only said that they got all figured out, by they were rather cryptic and did not say more.'

The Breton raised and dressed as fast as he could. He chose some traveling clothes, both not to attract the attention and to stay comfortable. He slipped a dagger in his robe, just in case. There was no telling where his research might bring him, although he hoped to find out shortly. He took all he could and ran down the stairs, stopping on the doorstep, where a middle-aged woman and Rexux, his own servant, stood.

'Go, Motierre. You need to leave,' said the woman.

'Where to?' he asked back, rearranging his clothes.

'Caius will explain. Right now you need to get on the horse and reunite him him at the gate.'

He went towards the stables, and noticed Rexus following him.

'Are the horses already saddled?' he asked the servant.

'Yes.'

'Do you know where we are going?'

'To Skyrim.'

* * *

Nine days passed, and they arrived at the border.

Amaund had been discussing his task with Caius for the whole journey. Maybe they gave the dirty work to him only because the idea of involving the Brotherhood had been his. Still, that situation put his life at a great risk, but was also an opportunity not to be missed. The prestige their houses would gain by knowing in advance of the Emperor's demise and exploiting the situation could be immense. There was no such thing as too daring in that moment. Something had to be done, idleness only led to being annihilated. Still, what Motierre was getting didn't the easier solution.

'Why are we going to Skyrim?' he asked.

'Are you blind?' was the Caius's response. 'The Brotherhood is truly our only opportunity to het rid of the Emperor, but it's in disarray. Their Sanctuaries got overrun in all the provinces of the Empire and beyond, even the one in Cyrodiil was raided at some point in the Great War; it's not known, however, by whom.'

'And they still have a foothold in Skyrim?'

'Foothold is almost an overstatement; they lack the organization and the constant flow of information they once had. Above all, though, they lack numbers. The agent of the Penitus Oculatus have been operating in Skyrim for some time, and say the assassins left are few, although still deadly.'

'Will they accept?'

'My gut tells me they won't renounce a contract like this one. They've not been offered a job of this importance since the murder of Pelagius, given he was killed by them.'

'He was.'

'Unimportant. Nonetheless, I think they'll accept. If anything, because we shall pay them.'

'How much does the life of a ruler cost these days?' grinned Motierre.

'That saddlebag carries over twenty thousands imperial septims. I know, I know…' Caius admitted, looking at the Breton's astonished face. 'It's a big sum, but it's what we can afford, because in the end this game is about buying them off.'

'Yes, but… That much gold? For one person?'

'No, not for one person,' continued the Imperial noble, sighing. 'The job is built of three total targets: Vittoria Vici and, believe it or not, the Gourmet. The Emperor is the last of these targets, though obviously the most important one.'

'But why? What is the meaning of so many deaths?'

'They are all linked. The letter I gave you explains all, so you don't have to remember it. It's quite complicated, and I've left some things undecided, on purpose. Assassins don't certainly lack ways and methods to do their filthy work. Anyway, I'll briefly explain. Vittoria Vici is the easiest one: she's the Emperor's cousin, and will act as a lure. A bait. With her dead, Titus will have to come to Skyrim to at least make sure everything is all right. Then the next comes in. Provided all goes well, the assassin will disguise himself as the Gourmet and kill Titus Mede II. All clear?'

'More or less.'

'Good, for I'll be leaving you soon. Rexus has all the additional information you might need, including where you'll go to perform the Black Sacrament. Try not to stop in the main cities and not to attract too much attention. Ah, and one last thing: don't read the book I gave you while others are watching. A lot of people have this in their bookshelves, but to show it is taboo. They'll arrest you, gut you and kill you if you get caught. This is something...'

'It's something big.'

* * *

And at long last they arrived in the crypt marked by Caius, where only the dead and the dust had been of company so far. No assassin to be seen that far.

And they were tired.

* * *

Meanwhile, somewhere else, in Markarth, in the shop named "Hag's Cure", Bothela and her assistant were talking about something strange that happened some days before. Only now they both agreed to touch the topic.

'Men seems to be the make or break with you, girl,' Bothela said. 'Or, should I say, male individuals. Because I had the strong suspect that…'

'Yes, he was al Elf. A Dark Elf,' confirmed Muiri.

'I'm surprised. That day was the first day you've not cried or blabbered "He said he loved me" and "How could I let him use me like that?" and other things of that such. What did that Dunmer do to you? Bewitched you? Used one of my love filters on you?'

'I couldn't say. I was… really impressed by him.'

'Figures… What strong man does not impress you?'

'He's different,' Muiri replied, coldy. 'He did not come to me saying meaningless words and making me promises he would later disperse to the four winds. He acted, without even talking that much. He did what I desired, and accepted only what we agreed.'

Bothela was an old hag, but one that had seen everything, and somehow remembered that bright in the girls eyes.

'Did you offer him to spend the night with you?'

The girl blushed faintly, and turned towards her teacher.

'How do you even know…'

'I don't know a thing, apart from the look on your face.'

'I asked him, indeed…' continued the girl, out of her own will. 'But he did not answer. He put on the ring I gave him, took the gold pouches, caressed my cheek and left. His eyes were impenetrable, I could not understand anything. I couldn't even know if he was smiling, sneering, groaning or what.'

'Usually we women are the most difficult to understand, but I can't deny you just met a rather mysterious man.'

'He was not a man.'

'Oh, Old Gods, and Elf, whoever he is. Males are the same between Men and Mer, so it makes no difference. One thing I'm left wondering, girl.'

'Yes?'

'What did this Elf actually did for you? What did he do to get you to trust him to the point of pledging yourself to him?'

'I can't tell you. But know this: it was something big.'

* * *

Lastly, we turn our gaze where all those events had been, directly or indirectly, set in motion.

A certain dark and gloomy hollow near Falkreath, in a pine wood. Deep inside, past a long passageway and past the main hall that housed a small subterranean lake, there was a smaller room. One person was always there, almost all day, because there was her alchemy lab. Someone paid her a visit that day.

'Greetings, Sister.'

'Hello, Brother. Did you want something from me?'

'Yes, Babette. I wanted to know if our new Brother said anything before departing. A saw him talking to you in rather hushed tones. Was it something you can tell me?'

'No, nothing,' giggled the girl. 'Nazir gave him a contract. A quite difficult one. He had to kill one vampire, but he had to fight two. Hern and Hert, they lived near here. He burned one of them with his Dark Elf's flames or whatnot… The other bit him, but apparently she died as soon as she tasted his blood. That is rather strange, but he could be lying; it's likely that he was toying with me, forcing me not to ask him to have a sip every time he comes here. Still, he wanted me to look at the wound, see if it was infected. I gave him a potion that neutralized any infection he could have caught, just be to extra sure. I tried to convince him into turning into a vampire, but he refused.'

'But did you talk about something else?'

'Be specific, Veezara,' said the girl. 'Do you want to know more about this Listener thing?'

'Bullseye.'

'Listen then, Brother: Azrael is the Listener, it's not a joke. The Night Mother spoke to him, when he described the way he had heard her voice it immediately reminded me of the Listeners I heard from when the Brotherhood was still intact. It was like hearing the Unholy Matron herself talking. I'm not concerned with that. What I'm concerned with is the timing. He received information about some fella performing the Black Sacrament, someone apparently named "Amaund Motierre", a Breton name, and the name of a really wealthy household in Cyrodiil. This whole matters has a terrible stench to me.'

'And what do you make of it?'

The little girl would have sighed, had she been breathing like normal mortals.

'Something big is in the air, Brother. Something big.'


	24. Silence Extinguished

'Master, wake up.'

'Damn it, I fell asleep… What time is it?'

'I haven't got a clue, I'm sorry.'

'Why did you wake me?'

'I heard some screaming over in the depth of the barrow. Some of those undead, it must have been.'

'What happened?'

'I don't know, maybe they're just a little restless.'

'Will they come for us?'

'I don't think, but should they decide to do it…' said the servant, looking his master in the eyes. 'You have to flee, master. I'll cover you, but you mustn't look back.'

'Don't you dare to say such a thing—' Motierre warned him, but froze suddenly.

Rexus turned immediately, his hand ready and gripping the pommel of the sword. He stared at the darkness ahead of him, but what both Bretons had heard was a sound only a humanoid creature can produce: a loud, faked cough. Only a sentient, thinking being could have the sense of humor necessary to do something of that such. Still, there seemed to be nothing there.

'Rexus, stay back,' Amaund whispered.

The servant obediently backed off, and allowed his master to stand where he was, in front of the impenetrable darkness of the corridor.

He heard two weak thuds. He would have later realized they were soft and hushed footsteps. The outlines of a human or elven body began to shape in the utter obscurity as the muffled sound vanished. Motierre was about to take the torch and light it again, but the figure acted first. The Breton could not say if he had clicked his fingers, waved a hand or whatnot, but something definitely happened: a small ball of light appeared from naught and raised into the air. Behind the figures head.

 _This is smart…_ Motierrethought, in admiration, and not just for the magical light. The warm bright coming from the magically-lit orb illuminated everything around it, but created even deeper and darker shadows where its light could not get; for instance, on the figure's face, which was completely invisible, darkened to extremes by the shadow that was casted on it.

'By the almighty Divines…' Motierre began vehemently, giving full vent to his tension and exhaustion. 'You've come, you've actually come. This dreadful Black Sacrament thing… It worked.'

The Breton stopped, waiting. He maybe expected some words of dark bravado by one of the kind of that murderer, but the figure remainedsilent. Motierre realized only then that the words he had said had no meaning and were obvious. Small talk. Circumstantial conversation. Maybe, just maybe, the figure didn't like the polite and meaningless words that nobles were accustomed to exchange every day. He was talking to a murderer after all, one that didn't have anything to say. This filled the noble with even greater admiration.

'Right, then,' he continued. 'You prefer to listen, is that it? Well, you must represent the Dark Brotherhood, I certainly wasn't expecting anyone else. So I'll cut to the chase: I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the most important work your organization has had in, well… centuries.'

This time he stopped, and waited for an answer. The figure figured it out surprisingly fast.

'Go on.'

Motierre was genuinely surprised to hear the abnormally deep and glacial, yet perfectly recognizable voice of a Dark Elf of Morrowind. He judged the figure's race by his height, since there was little else he could reliably see, and that misled him. Motierre covered his surprise behind another explanation.

'As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable,' he said, adding a derisory note to his voice. 'But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of… the Emperor.'

The Breton held his breath. He had said it. The machine had been finally put in motion. That was the point of no return, and there was no coming back. He observed the murderer intently, still trying vainly to see something of his face. The figure remained silent for a long time. Too long. Motierre felt the bite of fear gripping his stomach, a terrifying dread creeping up towards his head, congealing the body as it flowed.

 _He's not accepting. Now he'll gut me like an fish and this whole thing will end here…_ the Breton though, conquered by utter paranoia.

But in the end all his tension vanished as the figure casually shrugged.

'Leaders rise and fall,' he whispered, reaching notes so deep that they were barely hearable. Then, raising his voice a little, he added: 'Business… is business.'

Motierre felt the relief as no less than recovering from a warhammer blow.

'Oh, wonderful,' he exclaimed. 'You don't know how happy I am to hear you say that. So much has led to this day, so much planning, and maneuvering. It's as if the very stars have finally aligned! But I digress. Here, take these to your… superior. Rexus!' he called out. 'The items.'

Rexus went forwards, and placed Motierre's amulet along with the sealed letter in the murderer's open hand, covered by a fingerless glove. He blathered a 'here', and backed right off. He didn't trust that killer as much as his master did.

'The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable; you can use it to pay for any and all expenses,' explained Motierre.

Both the amulet and the letter disappeared in the assassin's pockets a moment later. Even though nothing could be seen of his expression, the Breton had the distinct suspicion that he wanted to ask something. And he was not wrong, for a moment later the cold voice of the Dunmer filled the air once more.

'Why do this?' he asked.

'I beg your pardon?' asked back Motierre, not understanding the question.

'Why have the Emperor assassinated?' elaborated the murderer.

'In the year 3E 41, Emperor Pelagius Septim was murdered in the Temple of the One in the Imperial City,' began Motierre, who had been expecting that request. The Dunmer seemed to sigh, and crossed his arms, maybe in annoyance at the history lesson; nonetheless, the Breton continued. 'He was cut down by a Dark Brotherhood assassin. His killing ushered in, shall we say, a necessary change in the imperial policy. There are now those who wish for a similar change. I'm sorry, but that's all I'm at liberty to say.'

The assassin nodded imperceptivity, and then raised his head again.

'One last thing. You realized we'll need… "Shall we say", significant compensation.'

His tone sounded sarcastic beyond measure. In spite of all things, this further increased the trust of the Breton, who saw that subtle tranquility as a signal of strength and confidence. Influenced by the dark humor of the assassin, Motierre replied grinning as well.

'Oh, my furtive friend… When Emperor Titus Mede II lies dead there will be gold. A fortune in gold. But so much more…' he continued, voluntarily touching the soft spot. 'It is said that the Dark Brotherhood, in recent years, has been in decline. That you lack the power, wealth and respect of days past. Is it not so? If you do this, if you kill the Emperor… Oh, how the masses will fear and respect you.'

'I suppose,' the murderer replied, coldly. He raised his head, slowly. 'That's all. Your personal motives and identity do not interest me, and it would be a lack of tact on my part to ask. I also hope that servant of yours is worthy of trust; but it's not my concern, isn't it?'

The assassin remained silent for a moment. Then he spoke. For the last time.

'We're finished here. Sithis protect you, Amaund Motierre.'

The magic light suddenly faded away, and obscurity shrouded the hall once more. The assassin turned back, without saying anything more, and his muffled footsteps echoed for the last time as he disappeared all of a sudden, just as he had appeared. Motierre, in a childish wave of hyperactive hysteria, bent and grabbed the torch. He took the flint and lit it, raising the flame. He searched for the killer, but he wasn't in sight any longer. As he had previously stepped out of the dark, now he had became one with it.

* * *

The trembling light of the candles illumined the small room; Astrid stood beside the table, looking at the two notes Arnbjorn had left before leaving. He did not write very well, in fact she wasn't even sure where he learned to write. She broke off as soon as she heard a familiar voice.

'Astrid? May I?'

Azrael had not made any kind of noise as he came in. Little time had passed since he began training in the art of stealth, and he already became better than some other members of the Sanctuary. Veezara had been spending much of his free time training him and teaching him his own tricks and tips without reserves. The Argonian was generally jealous of his skill, but he had taught the Dunmer everything he knew. Azrael, on his part, had quickly mastered those moves and was now one of the more effective agent they had. He had come to them a skilled fighter, and now he was a skilled stealth killer as well. Astrid couldn't help but thinking how strong of an enemy he would have been, had he stood on the other side of the barricade. Fortunately for her, he was not. Not yet.

'You're back, good,' she said, standing and getting closer to him. 'All right, so? Did you meet this Motierre? What did he want?'

Azrael raised his gaze, and looked his leader in the eyes for a moment. The crimson flames in the irises of the Dunmer sparkled with dark amusement, then he slowly took down his mask and his hood. He was still gathering his black hair as he began to speak. He was sneering drolly.

'He apparently wants us to kill the Emperor of Tamriel.'

Had he been as actor, he would have been a wondrous one. The combination between the meaning of the phrase and the cool tone in his voice on one hand and the casual gesture of rearranging his hair on the other gave the sentence a grim irony that reduced the dreadful weight of the sentence.

'You're joking,' sighed Astrid. She was not asking.

Azrael shook his head for the last time and then took something from his pocket. It was a letter, and Astrid caught the refined seal that was keeping it close.

'What's this?' she asked, taking it.

'It should explain all we need to do. In detail. And…'

He carefully took the amulet out. Astrid forgot the letter for a moment and looked at the necklace with interest. It certainly looked quite expensive. A moment later, after the Dunmer had carefully put the amulet on the table, she turned her attention back to the missive. She opened it with the dagger laying beside her, careful not to damage the seal too much.

Azrael folded his arms and stared at her while she read the first lines of the letter.

'By Sithis, you're not joking,' she sighed again, lowering the piece of paper and staring fixedly ahead of her. 'To kill the Emperor of Tamriel… The Dark Brotherhood hasn't done such a thing since the assassination of Pelagius. As a matter of fact, no one has dared assassinate an Emperor of Tamriel since the murder of Uriel Septim, and that was two hundred years ago…'

'And with that? From your tone I'd say we'll accept.'

Astrid turned her gaze to the Elf, now fixing her eyes into his.

'You're damn right we'll accept it. If we pull this off, the Dark Brotherhood will know a fear and respect we haven't seen in centuries. You think I'd abandon an opportunity to lead my Family to glory?' she asked, frowning. Azrael smiled bleakly, and let her continue: 'This, though, is so much to take in. I need time to read the letter, and figure out where we go from here. And this amulet. Hmm…' she said, hesitating.

'You're thinking of what, precisely?' asked the Dunmer.

'I'm thinking we need that amulet appraised. I want to know where it came from, how much it's worth, and if we can actually get away with selling it. And, there's only one man who can give us what we need: Delvin Mallory. I don't think you know him,' she clarified. 'He's a fence, a private operator. Works out of the Ratway, in Riften,' She pointed at the necklace on the table, and continued: 'Bring him the amulet. Find out everything you can, and sell it if he's willing. He'll offer a letter of credit, that's fine. Delvin Mallory and the Dark Brotherhood have... history. He can be trusted.'

Azrael grabbed the necklace, looked at it once more and put it back in his pocket.

'Riften, then?' he asked.

'Yes. Any problems?' she asked, looking at the letter in a distracted way.

'One I can easily overcome. I just need to get in the city without anyone noticing. It will be a lot safer, and a lot easier.'

'Why is that?'

'Let's say I got the attention of the wrong people when murdering our mutual target, back then… Grelod the Kind, remember?'

The both laughed darkly.

'I remember,' she said. 'In this case, may Sithis watch your steps.'

Azrael nodded silently, and turned around. He looked at her for the last time and proceeded ahead.

'I'm off. Say hello to Babette for me, won't you?'

'I will. Take care, Brother.'

'So long, Sister.'

* * *

'And what good is she to such cause?'

'Just think.'

'Ah, I see… A lure.'

'Good, Veezara,' complimented Astrid. 'You said it. No more and no less than a bait.'

'And we need a plan to eliminate her in a public fashion? Is that the goal?'

'It is. And the timing could not be better. I'll give our agent some gold for a carriage, and provided there are no incidents he should arrive to Solitude the day of the wedding.'

'Sounds near to perfect.'

'Because it is. The difficult thing will be the execution of the whole mission, but that is something that has little importance to me. I'll not be the slayer this time around.'

'And who'll be the lucky one?'

'Again. Just think.'

'Hmm… That's smart. Do you think he's up the task?'

'I do. The more he learns, the more he acts like you, you know?'

'Impossible,' said the Argonian. 'He's way better than me with a sword. I'd never best him in combat.'

'Yes, but I meant your approach. He studies the situation very carefully before attacking. Then he takes no risks, and leaves no witnesses. It kind of reminds me of your first days here.'

'No, Astrid, trust me. As much as I hate to say that, there's something in him… Something so strong the ground would tremble under his feet, if only he didn't walk so silently. We just gained a strong ally. If you ask me, I'd say an invincible one. He could do things some of us never even dreamt about. You know who I am, Astrid. So believe me. He might even be stronger than you.'


	25. A Means to an End

Solitude was completely empty.

The only people out in the streets were workers that could not abandon their jobs, or guards that equally could not move from their posts. However, there was something in common to all of them. They were all talking about a specific thing, one that had been in every debate for a month or so: Vittoria Vici, cousin of the Emperor, was getting married to Asgeir Snow-Shod, a Stormcloak. The general opinion on that marriage had been split since the beginning and had shifted a great deal. Initially it had been pretty badly received, but with time some even began to see it as the first step towards a peace treaty. Both sides had their parties and their fights, so much so that the ones favorable had united in one front against the ones that didn't like the idea. This mechanism had created a united front that was much louder than any mixed opinion coming for the other side. The main argument was the exceptional occasion that wedding granted to most people, a chance for understanding between the war parties.

For Plautis, it was just an occasion to get an import deal from the bride, with the help of gifts and a thousand honeyed words. His wife, Salonia, wasn't that much into that journey they had made and had complained for the whole ride. They had encountered some other people coming to the city, both for the wedding and not, but mainly for the wedding. They had engaged a hundred conversation made of circumstantial politeness and fixed phrases to show the enthusiasm for that unique occasion.

It was just midday when they arrived and the Sun was high up in the sky, close to its zenith. Hadn't it been for that light, it would have looked like midnight. The streets were deserted, noiseless and as quiet as they could get. Mumbles and murmurs were the only things they could hear. So few people were around that it seemed almost unreal. Strangely, it made the city look so much bigger than it was.

'I'm hungry…' lamented Salonia. 'Where is this damned temple?'

'Just ahead, we're almost there. Stop moaning and keep going.'

'Why are we even going to a wedding at this far end of the Empire, anyway?'

'I told you already: it's the wedding of Vittoria Vici, an extremely well connected merchant with the East Empire Company. The Emperor's cousin? Remember? Hopefully these gifts will put us in her good graces, secure that import deal, and lead the way to an audience with the Emperor.'

Plautis approached a guard, ignoring his wife still grousing.

'Soldier, could you point us to the Temple of the Divines?'

'It's just along this way,' answered the guard. 'You can't miss it. Have a good day, sir.'

They went forward, riding under a high archway that led to a big courtyard, where a group of soldiers sat down. Plautis looked a bit closer, and noticed some of them had slightly darker cuirasses and had more refined and well-designed helmets.

 _Penitus Oculatus? Hm… Strange. Is someone expecting trouble?_

He saw a large group of people near the entrance of what had to be the Temple. They wore expensive dresses and tunics, diadems and necklaces. One in particular, a young woman with straight chestnut hair, wore a green piece of clothing worthy of a member of the Elder Council. Those people saw them coming, and looked at Salonia and Plautis as they dismounted.

'Greetings, travelers,' said the chestnut-haired woman. 'Are you here for the wedding?'

'We are. We have gifts and our best wishes for the bride,' said Plautis. 'Who am I speaking with?'

'Elisif.'

'You…' stammered the Imperial. 'You are the ruler of this city?'

'Aye, she's Jarl Elisif the Fair. High Queen of Skyrim,' said a man behind her, at whom she immediately turned.

'Erikur, stop calling me like that. You know it's not true, and I'm not queen yet.'

Plautis had got a bit lost in all of that, but Elisif quickly turned her attention back to him and his wife, smiling broadly and inviting them to enter with a simple gesture.

'Please come in. It'll be my personal pleasure to introduce you to the newlyweds,' she continued.

The front courtyard of the Temple of the Divines was full of people, and all kinds of people as well. Aside from the green dress of Elisif, some Imperial-styled outfits could be seen as well as some civilian clothing. Plautis followed Elisif really closely, as everyone stepped aside to let her pass; he was followed closely by his wife, who had stopped moaning all of a sudden. They bumped into many people as they tried to follow the Jarl, when people closed back after she had walked away.

The Temple was made of stone, dark grey granite. It had some small windows on the front, and the walls surrounding the courtyard were high and very large. In case of attack, it would have been easy to defend. The whole building followed a similar architecture to the one of the nearby Castle Dour, and that explained the heavy walls, but the other elements were just Nordic fashion, or so Plautis guessed.

Elisif reached the couple, who were sitting on wooden throne-like seats. They resembled their respective people so well they almost looked like stereotypes, but they were a pleasing sight nonetheless. Asgeir was a high and well-built Nord with light blue eyes, blonde hair and light complexion. Vittoria, on the other hand, was a typical Imperial: dark haired, brown-eyed, a bit smaller than a Nord and with darker skin. One could say they were polar opposites, but it was this that made them so unique.

'Vittoria,' said Elisif, introducing the two travellers. 'These two guests arrived now from a long journey, and are willing to wish you the best.'

Plautis and Salonia bowed slightly.

'We are honored to be here, Vittoria Vici. Asgeir Snow-Shod… Our respects come from the bottom of our hearts.'

'Thank you kindly,' answered Vittoria. 'What an amazing day this has been. I hope you're enjoying the festivities. I'm… I'm just so overwhelmed. Such kindness… for me.'

'We brought you something from Cyrodiil, something you might miss in foreign land. I hope it will be well received and appreciated.'

'Thank you again. Now, if you please, you can stay here and enjoy the reception all you want. There is room for everyone here!'

'Oh, we will, certainly. And again, congratulations.'

* * *

As stated before, the whole courtyard was literally filled with people. The whole Solitude, or near enough, was there, and we would need to add all the others that came from far away; other relatives of the Emperor, members of various Cyrodiil families and so on.

Almost the entirety of the guests felt relaxed, and forgot all about world for that short moment. Stormcloak affiliated were talking to Empire supporters without the slightest problem, not arguing about politics, birthrights or whatnot, but of how beautiful and how joyful was the newlywed couple. Differences had been erased for a moment, and nothing else mattered. Only a handful of individuals, mainly the older ones, could not do that entirely.

For a lot of time the parents of the wife and groom argued, but they were an isolated case. So Plautis realized after having walked for a bit and having spent time with the other guests.

'Typical Imperial rot,' snarled the father of Asgeir. 'You speak of Skyrim like you know the land, know its people. You're from Cyrodiil! You know nothing about us! Nothing!'

'Oh, I know enough,' replied Alexia Vici, the mother of Vittoria, in a spiteful tone. 'I know those trouble-making Stormcloaks refuse to submit to Imperial authority. Such seditious behavior. Why, it's treason!'

'And when the elves marched into your beloved Cyrodiil, and everyone took up arms against them, wasn't that treason? Against the Dominion? Huh?'

'Why, that's not the same thing at all! The Dominion were invaders. Conquerors. We had to fight them, to preserve our own way of life.'

'My point exactly.'

Plautis couldn't help but empathize with Alexia. They both were from Cyrodiil, and shared the same point of view. Nothing would have changed it. He approached the two.

'Greetings,' he said. 'I was told you are the parents of the couple.'

'What my daughter sees in that... barbarian, I'll never know,' muttered Alexia.

'Excuse me?' groaned the older Snow-Shod. 'We can fight about our origins all day, but do not touch my boy…'

'Why? What do you think of my daughter?'

'She's not bad. My boy always did have an eye for the pretty ones. Vittoria ain't bad, for an Imperial.'

'So you think she is no good.'

'No! I talked about her origins, as I said. I won't touch your girl with one finger. Asgeir made his choice, and as much as I may despise it I will respect it.'

Plautis tried one more time to break the tension, and changed the subject. To little avail.

'But are you having fun? This, after all, is the wedding of your children.'

'I most certainly am not. I've just lost my daughter to a Nord beast, and my nephew Titus is too busy playing Emperor to even show up,' moaned Alexia, and the old Nord followed shortly.

'No, I'm not having a good time. My boy just married a gods-forsaken Imperial. Skyrim is full of eager Nord women, and he beds down with the enemy.'

The Imperial gave up, and tried to distract them and sufficing his own curiosity in the meantime.

'I'm sorry for that. And, you… You are from the city, so you should know. Why is the Penitus Oculatus staying here? Is there some kind of danger ahead?'

'Are you blind to the state of the world or what?' asked the Snow-Shod looking at him sideways.

'Oh, be quiet you brute,' scowled Alexia. 'He's from Cyrodiil and doesn't give a damn about our stupid problems. The possible danger here,' she explained, now looking at Plautis. 'is that the rebels, the Stormcloaks, are everywhere, and could try to sabotage the alliance that was forged in this very moment. My daughter wants peace for her land.'

'Peace? Who wants peace?' mumbled the Snow-Shod, but she ignored him.

'The Penitus Oculatus are here to prevent any mad, bloodthirsty Nord destroys what was just formed here. They are the last line of defense against the inner enemy that could lurk around here.'

* * *

 _That will do… The stone gargoyle seems too much like and accident. An arrow in the throat… Is a completely different thing. I'll go with that. Now… To find where Gabriella left that bow._

The light of midday had gradually faded, and now the first orange rays of the twilight gave the afternoon light a warm tint. As the banquet proceeded the guests started to talk a lot more and eat less, significantly raising the noise and the confusion. Azrael crept along the wall above the courtyard, staying West whenever he could. He was not as visible if he stayed on the opposite side of the sunlight.

 _It's so… Unnatural that someone has to die in order of someone else to complete his or her own purpose. Or maybe not unnatural, but strange nonetheless._

In this specific instance, or rather in every complicated Dark Brotherhood contract, the expression "the goal justifies the means" is a very recurrent theme. Azrael couldn't stop but looking at that smiling woman, dressed in white and red with a leaves crown on her head; she was the very picture of joy. And he had to end all of that. Why? Because someone wanted her cousin dead.

The Dunmer couldn't help but think of that. Politics always intrigued him, but for the sole reason it was one of the numerous arts that Boethia taught the Chimer that lived in the Eras past. Being an art of Boethia, it came natural that debate was also followed by plots, killings and rebellion, but that was the work of a Daedric Prince. Being himself the killer gave Azrael a different point of view.

 _She has to die in order for someone else to achieve his personal end. And I've got to do the dirty work. Does any of this make sense? Does the world itself make sense?_

The answer was no. That very monosyllable was the reason why he had the strength to do what he had to do. No orders would have bonded him to a task he did not want to accomplish, no conviction could obscure his mind and prevent him from reasoning; but the world made no sense, and so that had not to be a sense in what he was doing.

Strange, isn't it? If he thought about the purpose, he would have refused to act. If he acted for the mere satisfaction and self-accomplishment alone, not only he would have acted, but would have done so without thinking twice nor feeling guilty. Thinking about the big picture, what lied beyond his sight and his mind, silenced any empathy inside him. That emotion stopped whispering words in his mind, dissuading him from committing such a cruel act. It was silent.

In the structure of power that man created, what right does a being have to eliminate another? No one, not even if that other is a killer, a thief or worse. But in the structure of power laced in Nature? That was not the same thing. The rule was one: the most adaptable wins.

Azrael was just that.

An assassin's strongest weapon is his own dagger, but the Assassin that still slumbered within Azrael knew that fear, despair, paranoia, terror and so on are as effective as any weapon would be. All it took was one arrow, and the events would have unfolded by themselves; he did not exactly know how, but they would have. He just needed to set the machine in motion. The asset of the world would change, and all he had to do was perform a banal movement with his fingers and to exert a force strong enough to bend the bow. It was insignificant by itself, but it could have theoretically changed the world and the course of history.

Azrael was a nobody for those people. He just exchanged a few worlds with the priest, talked for some time with the Jarl, got introduced quickly to the bride and then… vanished. Elisif was the only one sorry that he had gone away. She knew his name and that was it. He had liked her. He liked her composure and shyness, most of all because they seemed to hide a power beyond the one normal people had. She was similar to him, in a way. A simple word from her mouth could change history almost as much as Azrael's arrow could. He felt bonded to her, but he had needed to ignore those feelings. She couldn't know who he was. And still, everything was calm. For the time being.

And… Speaking of Elisif, she was sitting in a chair near the entrance of the temple, looking at the balcony. They said the bride would have had a speech, and her sudden vanishing could mean only that she went un the stairs. A heavy silence was gradually descending on the courtyard. Finally, the newlywed came out of the door and walked on the balcony, approaching its fringe.

Elisif looked at both of them, and sighed deeply. Two clear emotions were fighting in her heart. A bright happiness and a deep and stinging pain that crept up her body like poison. She just crossed her arms and stopped thinking. Doing so made her feel sad.

'Good people of Solitude,' Vittoria began. 'I just wanted to take this time to thank you all for being here. To thank you for sharing this wonderfully happy day with myself, and my new husband. I thank you all again for making this the best wedding a woman could ask for.'

The twang of a bow. The hiss of an arrow.

* * *

It took too long to Plautis to even understand what was going on. For the ones closer to the balcony awaited a macabre spectacle: a few drops of blood fell on the ground, and began to slowly flow in the nearest drain.

It was like something had been turned upside down. Ice to fire, light to darkness, order to chaos.

'Vittoria! No!'

The first to react were the Penitus Oculatus, who ran past the gate and looked around without understanding too well what was happening. One of them pointed at the corpse of Vittoria, held by Asgeir in his arms, and at the long elven arrow with black vanes sunk in her throat. The shaft came out of her throat and the point barely coming out the nape of her neck.

The second to act was Alexia Vici. They always say a mother has special instincts towards her children, and this time it got proved true again as she cried.

'My daughter! Dead! No!'

And after that, it was utter chaos.

The Penitus Oculatus ran in the crowd, shoving aside and knocking down everyone that stood in their way. Some of them went in the direction where the arrow had come from, some other stood in the courtyard to try to keep the people calm. But it was all meaningless. Everyone was running away, presumably towards the exit, but a ration mind wouldn't bank on that being an actual fact. Everyone was running in the first direction they saw, and it wasn't always the right one. The Penitus Oculatus tried to stop them wandering around, but again, to little avail. They in turn got trampled by the fleeing crowd and were forced to back off. They regrouped in the center of the courtyard.

And then, unexplainably, they started dying.

Loud screams of pain and agony echoed in the air, two more thuds of arrows finding their targets could be barely heard. Then a series of metallic sounds became the most hearable. Plautis saw the Penitus Oculatus trying to swing at two dark shadows, pushing each other in the process.

Meanwhile, some others started killing.

'It was the Empire that killed her! I know it! They killed her so they can blame it on the Stormcloaks!'

'Shut up, you beast! Why would Imperial kill their own? It was the Stormcloaks that did this!'

'How dare you!'

Plautis tried to move, searched the courtyard to see if Salonia was still there, but he did not see her. He got pushed aside by a Penitus Oculatus and fell, and after a second he felt a hot spray covering his shoulder. He screamed, and there was little else he could do. What he could have done was stand up and flee, but it took too long even for that. A plated boot landed on his chest, and shattered his ribs.

'Get away from me, Nord! Get… Aaah!'

More death, more blood. The stench of it filled the courtyard.

There was a last thud of a body hitting the ground, and then silence. Plautis could hear only two voices, but the pain was so strong he barely understood what they were saying.

'Thank you, Veezara,' one said

'You're welcome, Brother,' replied the other.

'There are two wounded.'

'We can't save them, they know too much. Just kill them.'

'You take that one on the floor, I have something to discuss with the other one.'

After a couple of seconds Plautis saw a shadow over him. He wailed, but nothing came of it. A blade sank in his heart moments later.

Veezara stayed there and watched his Brother taking care of the last man. He was an old Nord, with a large dagger wound on his chest. Azrael was kneeling just in front of him, looking him in the eyes.

'Now you die,' he said, in his glacial and deep voice. 'You should have just fled. Taken care of yourself. No point in dying here, trying to take revenge on nothing.'

'Look who's talking… Someone who despises Talos… An Imperial dog…'

'I didn't do it for the Empire. Quite the contrary, in fact.'

The Skyforge blade pierced the man's heart. The Dunmer stood up, sighing.

'The Void awaits.'


	26. Rearranging His Majesty's safety

'Commander!'

Commander Maro turned around, looking suspiciously at the soldier who had just rushed in. He was panting, covered in sweat and pale as if he had just seen a phantom. It didn't happen exactly every day that trained soldier sprinted that fast into the headquarter.

'Rest, soldier,' he said, smiling weakly. 'What is happening? Is something wrong?'

'Yes, it's about your son!'

'What? Has he encountered any resistance while visiting the cities?'

'No…'

'On the road?'

'No, but…'

'Did he ran into any obstacles?'

'I mean, no…'

'That what is wrong?'

'He died, Commander. And that is terribly wrong.'

* * *

It all had began days before. That day in particular was a bright one. A strong wind had cleared the sky clear of all the clouds left during the night, and the daylight illumined all the landscape. It was truly a sight to behold.

The order had just come that someone needed to inspect all of the main cities of Skyrim to check if everything was ready and safe for the coming of the Emperor. Gaius Maro had offered for it, and it was high time he departed to begin the mission.

The father and the son said goodbye to each other. Had the known that was their last farewell… It would have been much different. But, like a lot of people before them and like countless after, they had no notion a particular and peculiarly skilled killer was on their tracks.

'Father, you worry too much. I'll be fine,' Gaius said.

'I know you will,' replied his father. 'But all the same, remember everything I said. Stay alert, and when you get to the cities, make your observations and move on.'

'I understand, but you're being paranoid. I'm inspecting security, not charging off into battle. There's not a lot that can go wrong.'

'Son, when the Emperor's safety is concerned, anything could go wrong. Off with you, now. And good travels.'

'Farewell, father. I'll return as soon as I'm able.'

The Commander looked as his child exchanged a few words with his betrothed. The last, as well.

* * *

'How in Oblivion did this happened?' screamed the man. 'No one outside from us was supposed to know his schedule, and the only blasted peace of paper detailing it is in our headquarter!'

'That's not true, Commander.'

'What?'

'We told you that the sheet had disappeared. We thought it got lost, but now… Now I have much darker hypothesis.'

The Commander sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.

'Where did he get killed?'

'Whiterun.'

* * *

It was a quiet Turdas.

'How much guards could you provide, in case of need?'

'Ten, maybe more. No more than fifteen though. The threat of a Dragon attacking is always present.'

Irileth got interrupted by a loud noise: the gates of Dragonsreach opening, suddenly, letting through a small ray of sunlight. Gaius Maro turned to the Dunmer, Irileth, with a severe gaze.

'No one is to be allowed here while I'm inspecting,' he reminded. 'What's the meaning of this?'

'He is the Thane,' said the Dark Elf, looking at the figure that was entering. 'He is a famous individual and one of the closest to the Jarl. He has the right to enter.'

'I hope he will not interrupt.'

'No, in any way. We will finish your checkup and then, if you want, I'll introduce you to him.'

'That won't be necessary. I'm inspecting security, not making alliances. Let us proceed.'

Gaius Maro casted one last glance at the Thane, looking at him sideways. He was sure he had already seen that man on the road. A sinister figure, wearing a black and red armor and hiding his face under the deep shadow of the hood and a heavy leather mask… Yes, he definitely had seen him already.

'Wait, housecarl,' the Imperial said. 'Is there anything particular I should know about this Thane?'

'No, aside from the obvious.'

'And what exactly is the obvious?'

'That he is a rather grim character.'

* * *

'How did my son die?'

'His neck was broken. We found no sign of fighting, if we don't count the smaller details. From our analysis it looks like he was grabbed from behind and tried to resist, but either gave up or got overpowered by his attacker in a really short amount of time.'

'Where was he found?'

'Lying a chair.'

'Any suspects?'

'Just one.'

* * *

Two, strong knocks at the door.

'Who is it?'

'Thane Azrael.'

'What do you want?'

'I was told a member of the Penitus Oculatus came to inspect the palace. It is my duty to aid anyone if the security of my city is at risk.'

Gaius Maro sat into the chair near the small table and sighed.

'Come in,' he said.

The door opened and the Thane of Whiterun walked in. He surprisingly had his face uncovered, and the Imperial was pretty shocked. He never suspected that tall individual to be and Elf, and a Dark Elf at that. The hair were black as coal, his eyes red like blood.

'Good evening,' greeted Gaius.

'Likewise, and… Welcome,' replied the Elf, closing the door behind him.

'I see the Jarl of this city apparently trusts high positions to Dunmer individuals.'

'So what?'

The glacial and apparently emotionless reply left the Imperial a bit confused and embarrassed. His mind barrier trembled weakly, and his lips moved several times without producing any sound. Some words are able to pierce a heart much more effectively than any blade.

'If I may, what is your business in this city?' asked the Thane, changing the subject.

'I… I'm here inspecting security.'

'Would you mind telling me what this is all about? I've been busy of late, so I might have missed some information that could allow me to help you in return.'

'I will, but keep them secret. You occupy a high position, so you should know, but it's not for all to hear. Is that clear?'

'It is.'

'Well, you certainly know about the atrocious murder of Vittoria Vici, the Emperor's cousin. When news of that got to the Emperor, he decided to come to Skyrim to set things right himself. Now that his arrival is imminent, his security guard needs to make sure every city is safe. In a week I'll return to the headquarter and give the order, and only then will the Emperor's ship sail from Cyrodiil.'

'What do you know about Vittoria's murder?'

'Little, and what we know is not to be revealed.'

The Dunmer sighed deeply.

'Gaius Maro, son of the Commander of the Penitus Oculatus… Are you seriously thinking I am not to be trusted? Do you think I'll spread the information to the four winds? Those clues might be the key to understanding who is behind the assassination. If you truly have so little, you might as well…'

Gaius Maro whispered a curse and then raised his head. That Dunmer had been toying with him since he entered. Now he had done the impossible, and drove the soldier to extremes, making him lose his patience and with that all his beloved secrecy.

'We know the assassins very well. Never heard of something called "Dark Brotherhood"?'

The crimson eyes of the Dunmer flashed bright red for a moment. Ironically enough, that sudden blaze sent a cold chill down Gaius' spine, but he did not show it. All the same to Azrael, who had moved a little closer to the Imperial and looked at him in the eyes, a cool expression on his face.

'I see,' he whispered. 'You're afraid.'

'I'm not afraid, and you should be less insolent. The Dark Brotherhood is a minor complication, and the Penitus Oculatus are investigating on the matter. We will catch those murders sooner or later, and you should no meddle in our affairs, Thane. You are a citizen like any other, and you will behave like any other. We'll tend to the Brotherhood. We'll destroy it.'

Azrael bent his head and walked slowly behind Gaius, who did not raise and turned only slightly. He intended to show his superiority, show the Elf that he was the one deciding. Stupidity can cost you, but at times pride costs you even more.

'Maybe, just maybe…' said the Dunmer, his voice cold as ice. 'Your father will destroy the Brotherhood. That is not out of the question unfortunately, although—'

Gaius had moved already at the "unfortunately", but it was too late anyway. He had had just the time to put his hands onto the armrests when the right arm of the Dunmer encircled his neck and closed on to his throat. That hold was unbreakable.

'Although,' repeated the Dark Elf, as if nothing had happened, 'you won't be there to see it.'

'What is this about?'

'Do you want to know?'

'I do.'

* * *

'What? My son? A traitor? Don't make me laugh.'

'He had a letter in his pocket, very well hidden. It took a while to retrieve it.'

'What did it say?'

'I quote: "Vunwulf, I agree to your conditions. When the Emperor arrives, I will pass along his schedule, and arrange for all doors to be unlocked, and any posted security to be conveniently absent for a small period of time. Nothing will stand between your men and his eminence. He will die by Stormcloak hands, and neither my father nor your great leader Ulfric will even know anything is amiss until it is too late. Leave the first payment, in gold, at this dead drop. I look forward to continuing our relationship.'

'Is that it?'

'Not quite. It's signed. Signed "Gaius Maro".'

* * *

'After I snap your neck…' Azrael said, 'I will put a letter in your pocket. Hidden, so that they will have troubles finding it. It frames a certain Vunwulf on collaborating with you to assassinate the Emperor. So, the effect will be double: cracking the Commander's heart and faking the uncovering of a plot against the Emperor. Smart, don't you agree?'

'And this Vunwulf?'

'He will be alive and well. There is no proof.'

* * *

'And what of this Vunwulf?' yelled the Commander.

'We brought him here, Commander. We interrogated him.'

'And?'

'Nothing came of it. Gaius had already passed through Windhelm when he reached Whiterun, and Vunwulf lives near the first of the two so… It would have been strange if he didn't give him that scrap of paper the first time. Secondly, Vunwulf knows nothing about that, and he's likely telling the truth.'

'How did you capture him?'

'The Captain gathered five soldiers and broke in his hut, where we found him sitting on a chair, greasing his blade. Nothing strange in his house, and even less evidence.'

'And where is he?'

'Just outside the door.'

'Bring him in, then.'

* * *

'Is it clear now?' asked the Dunmer.

'Sadly, yes,' replied Gaius. 'I will die damaging my comrades… What a dog's death.'

'Well, you can consider yourself lucky. Not every man knows who killed him or to what end he was killed.'

'That's true. I sincerely hope you fail… Dark Brother.'

'Thank you kindly,' hissed the Elf.

The hushed crack of the neck bone breaking was the next sound that could be heard, followed by another, hushed whisper:

'Farewell.'

* * *

Vunwulf was a tall and vigorous man, blonde-haired, green-eyed, with strong jaws and a broad chin. He had a dark green war-paint that went from one temple to the other, circling his eyes.

'So, you're the man that was supposedly plotting with my son?'

'Aye, that I am. Last time though, he was not plotting anything, and neither was I.'

'Did you know each other?'

'No.'

'Did you even know he existed?'

'No.'

'Look me in the eyes.'

The green-eyed Nord fixed his gaze in the pupils of Commander Maro. There was absolutely no lie in his gaze. One good thing about "True Nords" is that they are not able to lie. Not having the courage of telling the truth equals to fear, and being afraid equals not being true Nords.

'Fine, I'll leave the matter to you, Quaestor,' said the Commander.

'Commander, one last thing… About the Emperor.'

'Tell him to come, but warn him it's not safe.'

'But… He'll be at risk.'

'Yes, and we're going to face the risks and keep our enemies away from him. Worry not, Quaestor. Our enemy is playing with us, but now it's our time.'


	27. A new enemy, a new friend

_The twilight is so beautiful…_ Azrael said to himself, looking at the glowing sky.

The Dunmer stopped by the door and stood still for just a moment, waiting. Then, the ghastly voice of the Black Door whispered.

'What… is the music… of life?'

'Silence, my Brother,' answered Azrael. It would have almost been boring, hadn't it been a phrase of such importance to him. It was like a mantra.

'Welcome… Home.'

The Door opened slowly, and the Dark Elf walked in. He took the first turn, and expected to see Astrid in the other room. Surprisingly enough, Astrid was not there, and in her stead stood a visibly tense Gabriella.

'At last…' she said. 'I've been anxiously awaiting your return.'

She spoke with her normal, detached note and emotionless tone, but her face revealed more. Azrael looked at her stiff jaws, and wondered if everything was all right. It was when he left some days before, that was for sure.

'Well, first things first… Gaius Maro is dead,' he said, smiling bleakly, trying to shatter the anxiety that seemed to float in the air even. To little avail.

'Yes, I know. As does Astrid,' she replied, speaking slowly and calmly. 'You have done well, and earned both your rewards and a bonus, as I may have mentioned. But you should know that we have a more pressing matter to deal with.'

 _You don't say?_ Azrael thought, sighing deeply.

'It's… Cicero. There's been an incident. You should proceed into the Sanctuary. I'll let Astrid explain.'

'You're not coming?'

'No, I have other orders.'

They parted, swiftly. Gabriella went up the stair leading to the Door and Azrael took the opposite direction, running down the small passageway that led to the main area. There was a strange silence in the place, broken only by a voice. Only one. Of a child?

 _It's Babette, isn't it?_

'Just try to relax, Veezara, and let the elixir do its work. You'll feel better, shortly.'

Azrael came in, and saw all members of the Brotherhood gathered around the Argonian. He approached, without making too much noise. He did not want to disturb the others. He casted one glance at the splash of blood on the stone. Argonian blood.

'Thank you… dear,' muttered the lizard, holding his left side with both hands. The armor had been slashed, and blood still flowed off it. Azrael looked at the wound for an instant, ad realized that cut had been made with an extremely sharp weapon, that tore the leather and the thin metal cover of the cuirass and carved deep cuts into the flesh the Dark Brother. 'You are most kind,' he continued. 'The jester's cut feels as bad as it looks, I'm afraid.'

'Damn it, this never should have happened!' said Astrid, barely holding off her anger. 'We knew better… We knew better and still we let our guards down!'

'I'll admit…' added Festus, as if he was confessing something. 'Even I'm having a hard time disagreeing with you.'

Azrael stepped ahead a bit, waved quickly at Babette and looked at Astrid.

'Astrid, if you don't mind…' he began, but got quickly interrupted.

'Maro is dead, I know!' she burst. 'We've got bigger problems right now.'

'I can see that. Gabriella mentioned something about Cicero.'

'The fool went absolutely berserk! He wounded Veezara, tried to kill me and then he fled. I knew that lunatic couldn't be trusted!'

'Seriously?' asked the Dunmer, raising an eyebrow.

'It's true, I'm afraid,' confirmed Festus. 'Cicero was a little whirlwind, slashing this way and that… It would have been funny, if he weren't trying to murder us all.'

'And don't forget the ranting and raving,' added Nazir, 'about the Night Mother, how she was the true leader of the Dark Brotherhood, and Astrid was just a pretender.'

'Nothing new…' the Dark Elf murmured. 'I heard him several times blabbering, all by himself, about Astrid being the boss "for now", and things like that.'

'Look, Azrael,' said Astrid, a note of compulsion in her voice. 'We've to deal with this situation. _You_ have got to deal with this situation.'

'Fine,' he answered. 'What do you want me to do?'

'I want you to find that miserable fool and end his life! But first, find my husband. Make sure he's all right.'

Azrael just narrowed his eyes for a moment in order for Astrid to understand his question.

'After the attack, Arnbjorn flew into a rage,' she explained. 'When Cicero left, he went after him. They disappeared into the wild. For a start, search Cicero's room. Maybe there's something in there that sheds some light on where he might have gone. Let me know the minute you find something; right now I've got to see to Veezara, and calm everyone down.'

Azrael nodded slowly and walked towards the staircase that led to the bedchambers. He overheard something else of what his Siblings were saying as he went away.

'Bested by a fool…' Veezara was muttering. 'Who's the fool now?'

'Ah, hush, Veezara,' answered Babette, still seeing to his wound. 'You were very brave. Astrid may as well be dead if not for you.'

 _Something's not quite right here…_ Azrael thought while going past the entrance of Cicero's room. _There's nothing that can justify his behavior, but still… Got to search, maybe we'll find something._

The Dunmer followed the passageway to the room, and looked at it with attention. It was a simple hollow in the rock, like all the rooms in that place, with some basic furniture, a table and on it a pen, an inkwell and some books. The jester's bed was on the side. The candles were out, but they were not consumed completely.

 _Hmm… This means he put them off before going. It's not unimportant, it means he was planning this and was not just an "incident"._

The room seemed in order. Nothing was out of place, knocked over or anything. It looked like somewhere the owner could return any minute, and not a place he left in a hurry and likely for all eternity.

 _An empty bottle… No, it's unlikely he was drunk. Oh well, let's see… What's that?_

The Dark Elf looked at a small book on the side of the jester's bed. There were others lying around, all similar. He took it and opened the first page, looking at the first writing. The calligraphy of the clown was very flowing and rather strange.

 _A journal… He might have left some hints._

Azrael never kept a journal, did not feel the need to. Writing down in words, engraving one day or one week on paper seemed very strange to him. Not to mention he had a soft spot for his secrecy, and any clue he might have left behind were only possible weaknesses. Cicero clearly did not feel that way, and Azrael realized it as he read.

" _I've been reading of Skyrim, of the good days,  
_ _the old days, of the Old Ways._ _There was  
another Sanctuary once. A Dawnstar Sanctuary.  
_ _Good, ancient and strong. Blessed by Sithis.  
_ _Cicero will go there! No need of Astrid!  
_ _The Mother and I will settle, and she will speak to me,  
_ _finally, and we will build the Old Ways anew, together_ _."_

Azrael frowned more and more the further he read.

 _Another Sanctuary? Near Dawnstar? Astrid never mentioned this. "And she will speak to me"… Sounds like he really wanted to be the Listener. Yeah, yeah. Until a random Dunmer swooped in and took his place. Unwillingly, but that's how the world goes…_

The Dark Elf grinned darkly. The Night Mother hadn't spoken to him since the first time, but he dreamt of that whisper every night, every time he closed his eyes. It was strangely welcome, for something so grim and sinister.

Azrael went on reading, until he found something useful. In the next entry there was some information he could have used, given the jester did what he suspected.

" _The passphrase is mine! I have found it, in a letter ancient as the Sanctuary itself.  
_ _The Black Door will ask: "What is life's greatest illusion?"  
_ _I am to answer: "Innocence, my brother."  
_ _Finally, a space, a place, to call my own! A joker's retreat for the Fool of Hearts!_ _"_

Azrael sighed, not even knowing what to think.

 _Fool of Hearts? Gave himself a fancy name, but fitting. Innocence, then? Fitting as well. I think that's it, maybe though…_

The Dunmer looked at all the other books around the room. He could see other for aside from the one he was holding. No others in sight. He had an idea, and took another of those at random to check his suspect, which were true.

 _This one is older…_ _5th of Last Seed, 4E 188_ _… That's old, near fifteen years. I think I'll keep them when I have the time; I'm sure Babette would love to join me as well. Who knows, maybe there's some important things in there._

* * *

As soon as Astrid caught glimpse of Azrael returning, she sighed with relieve, even if she did not know if he had anything useful.

'Have you found something?' she asked.

'Quite. A journal,' Azrael answered.

'Good, good… Does it say where he may be headed?'

The Dunmer let her finish, but did not answer her question. He looked at his leader obliquely and asked, in hushed yet glacial tones:

'Do you know Cicero was not just mad, but also felt despised and frustrated?'

Astrid looked at him in the eyes for one moment, not sure if to order him to stay silent or to answer. She hesitated for a moment, but then met the crimson eyes of the Dark Elf once more, and explained, patiently and slowly.

'Cicero's problem isn't his madness, you're correct. It's an adherence to an ancient, outmoded way of life. The Night Mother's ways… simply are not our ways. He just couldn't accept that, and now he'll have to pay the price. Although, if I'm being honest, I haven't exactly been discreet lately in expressing my frustration with this whole situation. Obeying the Night Mother, you being the Listener… It's ridiculous. No offense. Cicero may have overheard me talking to one of the others about the Night Mother. It's possible I was… not entirely respectful. But to go this far? To attempt to murder the leader of a Sanctuary? Cicero must pay with his life. There is no other option, I'm afraid. Satisfied?'

'Not entirely, but time is at the essence,' replied the Dunmer. 'You asked where he went, and I know that. An abandoned Sanctuary near Dawnstar. I have the passphrase, yes.'

'The Dawnstar Sanctuary?' asked Astrid, more to herself than to Azrael. 'Whatever for…? Nevermind, it doesn't matter. You need to leave. Now. Every moment counts now, so I want you to take my horse. Her name is Shadowmere. You'll find her outside, by the pool. And don't ask yourself what she is. Let's just say she's… one of us.'

Azrael gave only a wondering expression, but didn't ask anything.

'Find Arnbjorn, remember. Make sure he's all right. Then, send the jester's little soul to the Void. In as many pieces as possible…'

* * *

 _So… Little lass? Where are you?_

The dark pool was unreal as ever, and aside from the pitch black surface it was perfectly abnormal. Or so Azrael thought, at least; he never had the courage to touch it. He now gazed at it, not sure of what to do. Astrid told him he would have found her by the pool, but nothing was there.

Although… A strange sound had began to resonate in his ears as he approached. The sound of a horse's hooves, at galloping speed. They were getting louder and louder, the more he waited the more those echoed in his ears. Or in his mind? Impossible to say.

Finally, something changed: a strange black mist began to raise from the black pool, as if the water in it had started evaporating and creating a dark fog. The Dark Elf looked in awe as it condensed in front of him, while the sound of hooves became louder still. The night had just fallen and everything around the Dunmer was blue and black, but in front of him two weak lights appeared; red, bright red, even warmer and more glowing than Azrael's eyes. His irises were crimson red, those lights were of a much brighter color, almost vermillion. Then, slowly, the fog seemed to condense, go from vapor to some kind of solid substance by itself. A shape began to appear in that black mist, the shape of a huge animal, blacker than night and more sinister than anything else the Dark Elf ever saw.

Azrael stood completely still as that happened. After a few more moments the condensation of the black mist was complete, and the two red lights now were two, perfectly seeable, vermillion blazes.

Shadowmere neighed loudly.

The Dunmer looked at her, astonished to put it mildly. He had never been so genuinely surprised in his entire life, maybe when he sensed the soul of the Dragon flowing into him at most. He just remained still, uncertain even about what to do.

 _You're not a damned "little lass"… You're a huge beast._

Shadowmere was a masterpiece of nature, if it had been nature that created her. Her black fur and long, dark red hair and tail gave her a very grim appearance; she was also quite a lot bigger than a standard horse. She also had no saddle, which was strangely fitting, given the fierce and indomitable aura that accompanied her. The two lights turned out to be her eyes in fact, two flaring red blazes that seemed to give off a baleful bright.

Azrael looked at the her in the eyes, and trembled at perceiving an eldritch and ancestral awareness in its them; not the deep and mysterious wisdom and understanding a Dragon has; it was… something different. Nevertheless the Dunmer approached her, raising a trembling hand. The horse neighed and shook his head strongly, but did not back off. Azrael made the last move.

Has gloved hand touched the muzzle of the colossal beast, which looked back at him with her red gaze and pressed her head against the palm of the Elf, who in term sighed with relief.

 _You're a big, bad girl… I like you, you know. You do too, probably._

He had to push with all his strength to get on the back of the animal, but managed it. Once he felt comfortable, which was surprisingly the case given the huge dimension of the horse's back, he grabbed her dark red hair and grinned darkly.

'Never been on horseback before,' he whispered, this time aloud. 'And the first time it happens is does on a dreadfully strange animal.'

Shadowmere snorted weakly, and looked like she raised her head towards her rider.

'Go, girl,' Azrael said, patting her on the neck. 'We've got a Werewolf to rescue.'


	28. Medicines and Poisons

A running man dashed in the inn, trampling the person that stood on the side and making the one in front of him fall down. He tumbled and bellowed a scream. The roughly twenty people inside all looked at him stunned. Moments later came the sound of hushed treads from outside. A horse, probably.

'Save yourself, folk!' he shrieked, loudly. 'The Daedra will destroy us!'

'What? Wasn't that howler enough?' scowled one of the guards, drinking at a table.

'What happened to him?' asked a woman, helping him to stand up.

'It's nothing,' groaned another man,' He just hasn't slept, like everybody in this blasted place.'

'A would not be so sure,' said Erandur, the Priest of Mara, coming out of his room. 'His eyes are wide open, and insomnia doesn't cause such harrowing hallucination so quickly.' He walked towards the man, standing beside him. 'Can you talk, child?'

He tried to, but from his mouth came no sound. None whatsoever.

'Whatever he saw right before he came in gave him quite the scare,' muttered the innkeeper.

'I'd say so. He's speechless.'

'This is no consequence of the sleepless nights,' said Erandur, looking at the man. 'Give me just a moment.'

The Dark Elf priest kneeled down beside the man, and put his hands on his shoulder. From his palm came a weak and warm light, probably simple healing spell, the ones all followers of Mara know.

'Maybe it will do good for his mind,' joked a man behind him. 'A good scare can cure a lot of illnesses.'

'However, a medicine has the potential to become a poison, if assumed in doses too large,' said Erandur. 'Always remember that. It's a lesson many of us learn the hard way.'

'Th… Tha…' muttered Bjakvild. 'Thank you.'

'Easy, child,' replied Erandur, stepping back. 'What was it that scared you?'

'It was… A daemon. A daemon from Oblivion,' the Nord mumbled. 'If you had seen it, you would be in my same sorry state. It was terrifying, dreadful… Something born from darkness itself.'

Erandur narrowed his eyes, trying to identify the mysterious monster, but thus far could have been any of the creation of the Daedra. All would have looked dreadful and born of darkness, especially in the heart of night.

'Do you remember what it looked like?' asked the Priest.

'It was enormous, and had two pair of eyes; one at the height of my head and another pair way up, seven feet or more into the air. The first pair glowing red, like embers, and the second pair red as well, but darker, more intense. It galloped past on strong hooves, snorting like a horse, but it was too fast to be a horse from here… It also had arms, strong arms, and his torso was shining dark like ebony. I… No more, I'll not speak any longer.'

'What in Oblivion are you blabbering about?' groaned a man near him.

'A creature born of Oblivion! This night is cursed!'

'Has the world gone mad? First the howler, than this blasted monster with four eyes! What else? Another Oblivion Crisis is coming?'

Erandur did not listen to the afraid folk that talked and made up the most unreal theories, but instead though about what creature it could have been. He was a Dark Elf, and had some knowledge regarding the Daedric Princes, but nothing came to mind. Even the many years spent studying weren't helping him at the moment.

 _A weak Daedra couldn't look like that monster,_ he realized. _It would have to be a powerful one, but why would his master unleash him here? There is nothing here that could attract them. Well, maybe aside from the Werewolf that run past earlier, but still is does not add up. Let's think, what could have that been? A Spider-Daedra? No, impossible. A Dremora in even more unlikely. No other looked like a horse and has more than two eyes, unless… Unless it was a humanoid horseman, riding a really powerful steed._

* * *

Erandur nailed it.

Arnbjorn thought the same thing as he saw the black, four-eyed figure approaching in the pitch black night. He immediately sighed with relief, knowing for certain he would not have bled to death. He had barely the strength to raise his head and scoff at the Dunmer:

'Should have figured Astrid would send you, but didn't guess she'd be giving you the evil girl.'

The Dark Elf dismounted and looked at him for a moment.

'Sit still, you're hurt,' he said.

'What gave it away?' the Werewolf replied, laughing tiredly afterwards. The Dunmer did not reply, as if he wasn't amused at all about his joke. Arnbjorn quickly felt the need to explain. 'Yeah… Got to admit that jester's pretty good with that butter-knife. But don't worry, I gave as good as I got…'

'Where is he?'

'In there, through the door… Some old Sanctuary by the looks of it. I would have followed him, but I don't know the phrase.'

'Good thing. You would have bled to death and Astrid would have killed me. I'll get Cicero, you go home.'

'All right… you convinced me. Doubt I'd be much good to you anyway. The little fop cut me pretty deep, but I slashed him good… Pretty sure I severed an artery. Don't know what you're going to find in there, but you can probably just follow the blood.'

'A trail… This is good,' whispered the Dunmer. 'First, take this.'

Arnbjorn looked at the Dark Elf handing him a small glass flask. It contained a strange fluid, but he could not see the colors in that dark. A strange pair of words came out of the Werewolf's mouth.

'Thank you.'

Arnbjorn looked at the Dark Elf as he walked towards the door, checking if the sword and the bow were at their place, fastened as usual to his belt and back respectively. He stood in front of the Door for a while, than, all of a sudden, he whispered something:

'Innocence, my Brother.'

The Door opened, and Azrael walked in. Only as he lost sight of him, the Werewolf uncorked the small flask and drank the fluid in it to the last drop. It tasted of something familiar, something that could be found even in some meads. It was wheat.

* * *

'Maybe it was just something from our nightmares…'

'The dreams are so real. They might be affecting reality as well! The nightmare are entering our world, and will destroy us!'

'Stop this nonsense!' cried a bald man near the entrance. 'It's gone, don't you see? Gone! Didn't slaughter us, didn't tear us to bloody pieces! The lad imagined it!'

'I didn't imagine anything!' the man protested. 'It was real, damn real I say! It even raised a cloud of dust that made me choke! How could a dream raise dust?'

'Divines' sake, people, just calm down! If you are so scared about this loud of lies just drink yourself stupid and be done with this! Next morning you'll remember nothing at all!'

Erandur shook his head slowly. The insomnia had driven the poor Nords completely nuts. They fought over nothing, screamed at each other for no reason and lamented all day long about not having slept very well or not having slept at all. They did not want to hear any reasoning.

The Dark Elf bent down, and looked at the tracks on the ground. They were likely the only evidence left by the four-eyed fiend.

 _A horse… Huge, but doesn't seem unnatural._ he thought, but there was still something strange. _Hmm, really shallow tracks. By the size, the animal should be heavy, but these haven't been left by a weighty animal, unless… Yeah, there are no clears marks. Maybe, just maybe, that horse did not have horseshoes. That would be strange, but would also explain a lot of things._

Erandur looked at the trail of tracks, which continued for the whole road. They were quite distant from each other, meaning two things: that the horse was truly big, and that was galloping quick as the wind.

 _Nothing we can do, beside praying Mara and hoping it wasn't actually some kind of daemon._

* * *

Meanwhile, a mile off or so, another Dunmer was inspecting his own track.

 _Arnbjorn didn't lie…_ Azrael thought, touching the blood on the ground, looking as it stuck to his fingertips. _A few ours must have passed, and it's not still dried out. The color's pretty light too, it's definitely an artery. Can't be very far now, or at least shouldn't have any more specters to unleash on me like that. The blood stains are getting less distant from each other, which means he slowed the his pace._

The Dark Elf walked ahead, moving slowly, firmly holding his sword, which was still covered by a strange layer of glowing ectoplasm: the remains of the specters that attacked him. The power that fueled those etherial apparitions was as ancient as the Sanctuary, its secrets probably lost to time. He had never heard of that type of magic. But that was neither the place nor the time to investigate rarities. He looked at the wall, and saw another thing that caught his attention.

 _A handprint… how much blood did he have on his hand when he rested against this wall? It looks almost like it's done with red distemper. The fool must have touched his wound to check the blood loss, or just to laugh at his misery. Well, he's truly not far. No one could go on for long with such a wound. He might have even bled to death by now._

As if to correct him, the wailing voice of the Jester echoed in the small corridor once more.

'And now we come to the end of our play. The grand finale!'

Azrael went through the same room he saw at the beginning, the one barred by the metal pikes; the voice came from the room beside; it was small, rectangular, illumined by a big, burning and recently kindled brazier that stood near the wall. Lying on the ground was Cicero.

'You caught me! I surrender!' said the Jester, laughing hysterically afterwards.

Anyone may have very well been tricked by the suffering note in the clown's voice, but not Azrael. Those few months had taught him a lot, and left a burning mark on his soul. He now had the irritating but very convenient attitude of trusting no one. And this time it might have saved him.

He looked at the blood trail, and it ended a bit ahead of Cicero. The hand of the Jester was barely visible, but it was clear it was covered in blood. That went to explain the bloodied handprint on the wall, but Azrael had another problem.

 _First thing is that he should not be alive entirely. Second thing is that if he actually survived, his clothes would have to be soaked in blood, and there're not even a drop on the floor either. Something's not right here…_

'Oh, you prefer to listen, eh? Of course… of course! The Listener listens! A joke, a funny joke! I get it,' Cicero laughed, looking at the Elf standing in front of him, his arms crossed, intent on analyzing the situation. He wasn't really listening, he was more absorbed in his reconstruction of the whole picture. 'Then listen to this: don't kill me!' the jester continued. 'Let poor Cicero live! I attacked the strumpet Astrid, I did! And I'd do it again! Anything for our mother! Return to the pretender, tell her I'm dead! Tell her you strangled me with my own intestines! But lie! Yes, lie! Lie, and let me live!'

 _He's faking an injury. I don't know if he is doing that expecting to receive pity or trying to stab me as soon as a I get close to finish him off, but either way I have to be careful._

The Dunmer stepped towards the Jester, without moving too fast. Cicero looked at him with interest. It was impossible for him to put together a clear trail of the thoughts that raced through Cicero's mind, and he reckoned it would be undoable for anyone. After all had transpired, he couldn't say if he hesitated, wondered what the Elf was doing… No one knows for certain. The only certain thing is that Azrael kneeled beside him and began talking, in hushed tones, almost whispering.

'You know Cicero, there's something I need to tell you,' he said. 'I know that the Dread Father does not wish you dead, but this is beyond us. You are suffering, that's the point. Every second you live, you choke on your regret and your envy, hiding it behind your laughter. Yes… your gift, your curse. I don't care what happens, but the thing that will be told is that I liberated you.'

Everything happened so fast. That few seconds had been a battle of polar opposites: the cold and calm killing machine faced the utter irrational stream of thoughts of a madman. It that even fight, there is one thing that won Azrael the struggle: his ability to understand his enemy, and prevent him from doing the same.

This all became quite clear when the Dunmer's blade sank in the Jester's throat; blood flowed on the wound, and this time it wasn't fake. It had a strange smell. Azrael was no herbalist, but he knew how to make a standard potion to regenerate tissues or improve coagulation speed.

 _Blisterwort_ _… Could have been enough to heal the wound._

Moments later another glowing, transparent figure appeared through the door of the room. But this one didn't attack the Dunmer.

'The Keeper is a sacred position within the Dark Brotherhood,' said the phantom, speaking with a deep voice. 'Did you ask yourself if you trusted our Lady?'

Azrael knew that the ghost of Lucien was not a completely sentient being, and that it was not possible to have a completely normal conversation with him; he would have not understood his answer, but he spoke nonetheless.

'This was not our Lady's concern. I put and end to her child's suffering, and that was my decision. As for me…' Azrael stood still, and then a guttural sound escaped his throat. Laughter. A strange laughter: grim, dark and imbued with a deep sorrow. It was not a madman's laugh, but rather the only breathing space of the exact opposite. 'As for me…' he repeated. 'I will take responsibility for this, but I'll not be ashamed of what I've done.'

As Erandur said, a medicine in doses too large can be a poison. As Cicero lied dead on the floor, his throat pierced and dripping blood, that became even more true. Laughter is a really powerful remedy, but too much can easily make you lose your sensibility; at times, your life.

Erandur said some learn this lesson the hard way.

Others don't have the time entirely.


	29. The Keeper's Legacy

'It's a quite detailed description of the troubles the war brought to the Brotherhood. And how our dear jester lost his mind.'

Babette listened intently, and then shifted a little. She was sitting Azrael's legs, and looked at him with curiosity. Right now one thing interested her the most.

'You mean… He got mad only at a certain point?'

'Yes,' confirmed the Dunmer. 'It's all very clear in his journal. At first, the entries are of a normal man. If we can call someone "pledged his blade to the Brotherhood", as Cicero wrote, a normal man.'

Babette nodded. The Dark Elf had been quite surprised when she sat on his legs, because she weighted a lot less that one would think at first sight. At second thought, it was pretty normal: almost all bodies are made primarily of water, and the body of a Vampire is almost completely drained of it. The bones maybe weighted a little, but the little muscles and flesh left on her were essentially weightless.

'Did he, by chance, made some references to the loss of Sanctuaries all across Tamriel?' the girl asked, resting her head on the Dunmer's shoulder.

'Yes. He wrote about it on the twelfth day of Rain's Hand, year 187: "Still, we seem to be losing our footholds throughout Tamriel at an alarming rate. There are rumors that the Black Hand is split on our continued direction". After that a series of personal opinions follow, as it often happens throughput this first section.'

'Yeah, that was fourteen years ago,' remembered Babette. 'The Black Hand did argue. They were not sure if we needed to spread out again or if we should concentrate on reinforcing our already existing and weak borders. The Listener was inclined to expand and it would have probably been a worthwhile investment, but we lacked the resourses and the influence to pull off something of that scale. Anything else?'

'On that topic, he mentions the Listener coming to Cheydinhal to talk about the re-establishment of a stronghold for the training of the Shadow-scales.'

'That could have never been done,' said the girl lapidary. 'What's next? Does he mention the loss of the Wayrest Sanctuary?'

'Yeah… You can read it,' replied the Dunmer, taking the second book from the table and giving it to the girl.

'Fine. So… "May the Night Mother watch over her children in their hour of need", he wrote. What's next…? The closure of the Corinthe Sanctuary, yes.'

'Why did you do that? You could have used a foothold far from the center of the Empire.'

'We were few; there weren't enough Dark Siblings to operate a completely different refuge. We felt the war was nigh. We had to use all the help we could to drive the attackers back in case of raid. In Bravil, as Cicero says, the situation had quickly become unbearable. Members from the other Sanctuaries were sent to aid the Listener, and it looks like even Cicero lost two Siblings. We only sent one. He did not return, obviously.'

'One of his Brothers returned though,' observed the Elf.

'He did, and carried the Night Mother even,' admitted Babette, 'but he died shortly after. As for the others, we know that the Dark Brother we sent got slashed so many times that the lump of flesh that remained could hardly be called a corpse. That's interesting…' continued the little Vampire after a while. 'That is why the Night Mother's coffin got to Cicero. Does this tell of how he became Keeper?'

'It does. Further along,' answered the Dunmer, giving her the third book.

Babette took the journal, put the last one on the table and shifted again, positioning her head right between Azrael's shoulder and his neck. His long hair acted as a kind of veil.

'Hmm… "Now that things have settled down, the reality of our situation has finally come to bear: we are a Dark Brotherhood without a Listener. With no Listener, the Black Sacrament will go unheard". That's a problem we've had too, you know dear Cicero? "It is a new year, and two months since the Night Mother first arrived here at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary"… Ah, here it is. "Rasha has decided to revive an ancient Dark Brotherhood tradition: the appointing of a Keeper, a guardian whose sole duty is the safeguarding of the Night Mother's remains". That explains quite a bit.'

'Meaning?'

'He might have lost his mind because he was trained to kill and he couldn't do it any longer.'

'No, it's different. Keep on reading.'

'So… "I have been chosen… The Black Hand has named me the Night Mother's Keeper… Rasha has promised me one final contract." Okay, next entry. Wait… Azrael?' the girl said, with a perplexed expression on her face. 'Is this why?'

'Seems so.'

'Just think of it… "The jester lies dead. My final contract has been completed. Oh, how he laughed and laughed. Until he didn't". Sound almost like it was written by you.'

'Except Cicero was not a contract, and he won't be my last kill either. We still have an Emperor to dispatch.'

'Well said, Brother. Now… A long description about the role of Keeper, some technical explanations… Is this the thing you told me about? "Months and months and months and no Listener. Why won't the Night Mother speak to me? I am worthy as Keeper, but not as Listener? I protect our Lady, keep her sanctified, but still she will not grace me with her voice?"'

'It is,' answered Azrael. 'Note how he wrote. Short phrases, continuous questions… Keep on reading, I think it will be clearer ahead.'

'If you say so. "So long since I worked my blade"… Ah, wait, there it is: "I think back fondly on my hours with the jester. His laughter, his screams, his pitiful cries. And then, as the end drew near, his laughter once more. Merry in death as well as life. I was honored to know him". Do you think…?'

'I do. Grief, sorrow, envy and despair got into him, and laughter was the only thing he knew that could control or make him forget those feelings. Eventually he lost control over it, and went mad.'

'Ah, damn…' said Babette, turning the page and finding only ruined paper. She took the fourth book from the table, and then put her head back between the Elf's shoulder and his neck. 'So… Interesting things… "Silence! Deafening silence! In my head, in my head, in my head". He started to repeat things, like he did for the whole time here.'

'It gets more and more obvious. Now… I see you are reading the next lines. Those say that he had to conspire against a Dark Sibling to protect the Brotherhood. Just… Think about how that would feel.'

'Yeah… "The Night Mother remains silent. I remain unworthy. The Sanctuary remains doomed". And a bit forth… "Deeper and deeper. Louder and louder… Laughter".'

'There's nothing so strange about it,' sighed the Elf. 'This is no dark influence, curse, or whatnot. He'd been through too much, he could not stand it. I don't think anything else played a part.'

'Does make sense,' murmured Babette. 'He had to live in incredibly precarious conditions for months, suspecting one another, unsure about what to do, having to kill his friend to protect what he swore to keep. It's tough. "Cicero is dead! Cicero is born! The laughter has filled me, filled me so very completely. I am the laughter. I am the jester. The soul that has served as my constant companion for so long has breached the veil of the Void finally and forever. It is now in me. It is me. The world has seen the last of Cicero the man. Behold Cicero, Fool of Hearts, laughter incarnate!" I think this is where we lost him.'

'If you pay attention…'

'Yes, the entry after is eight years older. Azrael? Be a dear and pass me the last one.'

The Dark Elf stretched his arm and grabbed the last volume, while Babette put the one she held beside the others.

'Okay, this is when he contacted us. Ah, yes… "Her Sanctuary still stands. Still operates. But how? No Listener means no Black Sacrament, no Black Sacrament means no contracts". I have to admit, his doubts were legitimate. "Something wrong"… Thank you for that lovely definition, Cicero.'

'It gets even better as you proceed.'

'Does it? "There was another Sanctuary once. A Dawnstar Sanctuary. Good, ancient and strong. Blessed by Sithis. Cicero will go there! No need of Astrid!". That is good. It's why he took so long to arrive.'

'And why I found him on the road coming from Dawnstar…' hissed the Dunmer.

'I don't get how you did not connect the two things, to be honest,' grinned the girl.

'Me neither.'

'You're losing your wit, old new friend. Fine, don't give me that look. What's next? "I give my love to the Unholy Matron. I give my laughter freely. But I do not hear her". And… Nothing else interesting. He… He never wrote anything about his stay here.'

'No, he didn't, but we hardly needed that, did we?'

'What is that "big ugly beast" he mentions?' the girl asked, crossing her arms and looking up at the Elf face.

'A Snow Troll,' he explained. 'A nuisance, really. He found his way into the Sanctuary and inhabited a small section of it. They truly are a tough enemy, though. The stench in unbearable.'

'Oh, your lovely sarcasm… I missed it. How did you get rid of it?'

The Dark Elf raised his palm near the cheek of the girl and waved his fingers slowly. A small flame crept in his palm for a moment, and an intense heat came from it. Babette shifted suddenly, smiling and revealing her little fangs. The Dunmer closed his fist and the flame vanished in a small could of vapor.

'You know I hate the heat…' protested the girl.

'Precisely why I did that,' replied the Elf. 'Anyway, the Troll got burnt alive. Satisfied?'

'I'd say so,' said the girl, getting rid of the book. 'So, now explain me why you decided to kill him. Even Lucien said it was not good for the balance of the Void.'

'What would you have me do, instead? Lie to Astrid? Betray my Family? No, I will never do that. I know that the Keeper is sacred, but which is the more sacred thing? My Family or the Keeper? It was about choosing the lesser evil at that point. And Cicero was deeply suffering. You read that yourself. His life claimed his reason, and the silence claimed his sanity; the Cicero we knew was a husk devoured by remorse and envy, someone who lived the silence of the only thing he loved as a painful truth. He didn't… feel, even, the same way as we do. He did not feel at all, I think. It was only laughter. Just that, nothing more.'

'A mercy kill, then? Took you for the heartless type.'

'Mercy is a bit generic, or maybe a little bit too specific. I'd say safety. As for the other thing… I might be heartless, fine, but not mindless. He was a threat, one that had to be eliminated, and he was suffering on top of that. Killing him was the easiest way to solve all those problems at once. Killing is what I do best… These days.'

'What was that in you voice? Sorrow?'

'Memories…' he whispered, in a cold and deep tone. 'Memories of someone I was and that I am no more.'

'Are you well, Brother?'

'I don't know… Ah, but never mind all that,' he replied, and the frost that gripped his tone melted. His voice was now again deep and strangely soothing. 'I need to rest, then go to Markarth and settle what Festus told me to do. I can't fathom I'm hunting a cook. A blasted, useless cook. I bet he isn't that good at it, either. By the Three, that is by far the weirdest thing I've ever done.'

'Beside killing a Dragon, you mean,' laughed Babette, but lowly, in a whisper.

'Yeah, but it's best we don't bring that up while in here, remember? The others don't know.'

'I was joking, you big cinder guy…'

'I was too, you eerie little not-quite-living girl.'

The two stayed there a bit longer; Babette moved so that her head fit the space between the shoulder of the Elf and his bearded chin, resting it on his throat, which moved slowly as he breathed. Azrael, without even thinking, began caressing the little Vampire on the neck.

You could say the two had gotten pretty well acquainted.


	30. Tracking the aroma

'What…?'

'Ennis? Are you all right?'

'I… I saw a dark shadow dashing past the hill, and then it disappeared behind the rocks…'

'You imagined it. You've been tending to those crops all morning with the Sun beating down on your neck. It can happen.'

'Damn it, Reldith, I know what I saw. I just can't understand…'

'Look, Ennis, there was nothing and you just had an hallucination. Rorikstead is in the middle of nowhere, so if someone was traveling from the West he had to pass through the village, not the hills. And there's no such things as dark shadow moving. Now stop raving and keep working.'

Ennis gave a last glance at where the dark shadow had disappeared, just behind one of the last hills before the endless plain that continued all the way to Whiterun. Thinking about it made him feel stupid, but he could have swore that the dark shadow had the shape of a horse with a rider on its back.

* * *

 _We need to go behind the city if we don't want to get spotted. I hope there are no city patrols there. It would be most unfortunate if we bumped into one._

They were getting closer to the city. Azrael saw the Throat of the World emerging from the mist, and spotted the Shrine of Zenithar just a hundred meters ahead. He let Shadowmere decide which direction was the best to get around the rock formations, and just gripped the dark mane tighter. The horse went to the left, staying far off the main road.

Seemingly tireless, Shadowmere snorted and accelerated again once the terrain was safe again.

The Dunmer looked at the sun, calculating its position.

 _It's early in the afternoon. Just think… If I was on foot it would have taken me days to get from Whiterun to Markarth, and with Shadowmere all it took was twelve hours. I could theoretically ride from one corner of Skyrim to the other in a one-day time._

As you can imagine for someone of his trade, that expanded his possibilities by a lot. Less time spent traveling meant less time between contracts, which can result either in higher incomes or in the possibility of coordinated assassinations without letting the notice even travel form the crime scene. As for now, the Dunmer was very content of his newly found friend. Astrid told him that he could keep her for a bit longer and honestly, after only four days with her, he shivered at the thought of not having her.

Before Markarth, he had also stopped at a nearby Forsworn camp. One that Olava the Seer said contained the legacy of a forgotten assassin.

They were now approaching Whiterun, and Azrael remembered that chat with the old woman.

* * *

Three days before, on the outside of the Fortuneteller's house.

'I was told to give you this token,' Azrael said, handing the blue gem to the old woman.

'Token? Oh… Goodness me. You're a friend of Gabriella's, then. Well, I think we both know why you're here.'

'Is that true? Can you see my future?'

'Yes, yes, I surely can. It's not something I do lightly, mind you, and it's not as specific as you might want. But yes, I will do this for you. Now relax, please.'

The Dark Elf quietly sat down next to the old woman, whose eyes had grown glowing. Or maybe it was just a strange, lingering shade. Impossible to say. The Seer breathed heavily for a moment.

'Free your mind,' continued the woman, narrowing her eyes. Seconds later she shifted, and spoke again, her voice slightly altered. 'Yes, that's it.'

The Dunmer did not have to wait long.

'There's a cave. No, not a cave. A… home? A place you feel secure. You will find safety there... sanctuary. I see snow, lit by the star of dawn. And you are not alone. There are others. A child of night… a stalker of the sands? Oh, but before you are family, there will be blood. Such blood! Then, the mist grows thicker… It's hard for me to see… I see darkness, and deceit; blackness, void… Light.'

The Dark Elf narrowed his eyes and looked bleakly at the old woman. His eyes flashed with every new word that came out of the Seer's mouth. He sensed a dark truth hidden in them, as if they somehow resonated with his soul, but could not comprehend their true meaning nor the reason of that strange feeling.

'Wait!' exclaimed the woman all of a sudden. 'There's something else! A potential for adventure, and wealth. It is a ruin, ripe for the plunder. Deepwood Redoubt. Far to the northwest… Through there is… Hag's End. The last resting place of an assassin of old. A Dark Brother, who bequeaths his ancient earthly possessions… to you.'

The last two words seemed to echo for a while even after she finished.

'Anything else?' asked the Dark Elf. His voice was cold as ice.

'No… no, that is all. Now… now please. I find myself very weary all of sudden.'

Olava leaned against the wall of her house and fell half-asleep, exhausted by the short glimpse into the future. She awoke completely a few minutes later, and found Gabriella's token left on the bench, just beside her. However, the assassin she had predicted the future of was no longer in sight.

* * *

 _If that crone was actually telling the truth, then this is an ill-fated mission. A stalker of sands? Nazir, no doubt. A child of night? Babette, who else? And the others? All my siblings are briefly summarized in "such blood"? No way. And what are those next things? Darkness, deceit? Light, even. And then it blurs, as if there's nothing more to see._

There was no proof that Olava did not tell the truth; if anything, there was proof that she did. Azrael was wearing a strong evidence of that.

The armor the Seer mentioned, the one donned by the assassin of old, was indeed hidden in Hag's End, and it was a true treasure. It followed a pattern similar to the one of the suit Astrid had given the Elf when he joined, but this was a lot more refined and a lot more well designed. The cuirass wasn't made just of animal hide with metal reinforcements, but was a thin steel plate covered by black leather, thin and yet very resistant. The half fingered gloves looked a bit like gauntlets by the sheer size. Same went for the boots and the greaves. The hood also was more comfortable and thicker. The assassin he found did not wore a face mask, and so the Dunmer kept the old one, alongside his long, black cloak made of wolf hide.

Other than the armor, the Dunmer had made a new addition to his equipment: the dagger Cicero used. It was made of ebony, and Eorlund always told him that it's on par if not better than Skyforge steel. It was also the first dagger Azrael ever used. Before he only had his sword to rely on. Now he had not one, but two blades to work with. He remembered when he was just at the beginning of his journey, when he thoughts that daggers could not deliver deadly enough hits. Now he was recalculating everything.

Shadowmere bolted alongside the high walls of the North side of Whiterun, with Dragonsreach looming over the plain. There were a few guards on patrol near the street, but they would have seen a quick figure dashing through the plain at astonishing speed and nothing more.

 _The Nightgate Inn… A lonely place, perfect to hide. Especially as a strange Orc. We'll see how well the kitchen-master disguise works, if it works at all. That cook was easy to manipulate, gave me much less trouble that I thought. When will people understand that the things they know are more valuable then their lives?_

* * *

Hadring looked in the mug to see if it was clean, and once he decided that it was he put it down on the counter, whistling calmly. The weather was good, a group of travelers had come by at midday and now it was all peaceful and quiet.

It remained peaceful and quiet even when the new guest opened the door.

Hadring, before raising his gaze, wondered if it had been a ghost that entered, since the door got opened and shut shortly after but he heard no footsteps at all. As he looked, he frowned slightly.

His guest was a tall individual who wore a black and red suit of leather and dark metal, his face covered by a black mask and a crimson hood. A long black cloak floated behind him. The arrows in his black quiver had black fletching. An elven bow recolored dark grey hanged on his back beside the arrows, a sword and a dark dagger from his belt. Quite a sinister and ominous character. The innkeeper hopes he didn't mean any trouble.

'Ah, hello there, traveler. Come to the Nightgate for food or lodging?' asked Hadring.

'Neither,' answered the guest. His voice was deep, but clearly the one of a Dunmer. 'I'm just resting.'

'Anything you need, just holler.'

The Dark Elf leaned against the wooden wall and looked around.

'Quite the tavern you've got here,' he said, glacial.

'This old place? Been here forever,' answered Hadring, always happy to have some conversation. His weak spot was the tendency to talk too much. 'Built by my great granddad. Run by him, then all the way up the line to me.'

'And? Business faring well?'

'Nah, not so much. The odd traveler on the road, sometimes, but mostly just old Fultheim, come to drink away a lifetime of bad memories, I'd wager. 'Course there's the Orc. Long-term tenant, that one. For what he pays, I could afford to shut this place down. It's the only thing keeping my pouch full.'

Maybe he imagined it, but Hadring saw a dark flash in the crimson eyes of the Dunmer. The only part of his face that could be seen.

'An Orc? What about him?'

'Him? Oh… Name's Balablob or Malaclob, one of them funny Orc names. Talks real good, though. Not a savage at all. Said he's a writer. Don't know what kind of job that is, but it must earn him some pretty coin. He's paid up for the next few months. He mostly just hangs about. Goes down to the lake, sometimes samples the stores of wine in the cellar. Man can do whatever he pleases, far as I care. But… You saw him. Coming here. He was just spending time at the pond.'

'Ah… That one,' commented the Elf in black. His was a statement, not a question, but Hadrin answered nonetheless.

'Yes, that one. Strange type, hey? Knows lots about cooking too. He's a true expert, y'know?'

Loose tongues are one of the easiest individuals to exploit, and Azrael knew that very well. He stood up, stretching out his arms in a casual movement. He inhaled deeply, and looked at the innkeeper. His eyes were impenetrable, but under the mask he was sneering. Just barely.

'Thank you, kind man,' he said. 'I need to proceed South. Farewell.'

'Goodbye, good sir. You'll always be a welcome guest here.'

The Dunmer got out, without making any kind of noise. After he shut the door, Hadring could not help but think it all had been a hallucination, and it was really a specter that talked to him.

* * *

Azrael walked towards the small lake where the Orc was standing. As for the Orc himself, he was simply staring at the clean water reflecting the blazes of the sun.

'Balagog gro-Nolob?'

The Orc turned around and froze on the spot, but did not show it.

'Whatever it is, I'm sure I can't be of help. I'm just here on... holiday,' he said.

'Oh, really?' asked the Dark Elf, a dreadful sarcasm in his voice. 'I'm here precisely to… hinder, your coming back to work. You've served your last meal, Gourmet.'

'Gourmet? Why I… Um… Oh dear. You're going to kill me now, aren't you?'

He did not have the time to run, let alone hear the answer.

The new dagger of the Elf tasted blood for the second time. First on Virane, and second on the Breton's schoolmate. From the thin wound dripped small drops of blood. Azrael quickly circled the throat of the dying Orc with a silk lace, and then pushed the corpse into the water.

He looked at the small parchment he recovered from his pocket while he fell, and smiled darkly. He then looked at Shadowmere, drinking water from the pond on the other side. The fog was so deep that the Gourmet probably did not even notice her.

'Come on, girl. We've got to get back home.'

While he approached the horse, he looked at the water and shook his head.

'Asking me to hide a body when a lake is at an arrow's shot… Oh, Festus, you could have asked me something harder.'


	31. The Flavor of Doom

All was settled. The Dark Brotherhood had all it needed to complete the plan, its emissary was ready to go and was receiving his last instructions, and the whole Sanctuary was about to make the next step into the future. Into an entirely new era of the Brotherhood. Gabriella and Festus were coming back from Solitude, where they arranged the bridge through which Azrael would have escaped to be free of peril. Veezara had gathered as much information as he could about the coming of the Emperor, in case their agent needed any. Astrid had just come back from a mission involving a final thinning of the Penitus Oculatus ranks.

As for Azrael himself, he was asking the last questions before his final departure.

'The smell alone could make you faint…' murmured the Elf, putting the poison he would have used in the satchel. 'Anything else?'

'One thing. It took all the favors, bribes and blackmails I could muster, but I've secured your exit out of the keep. Gabriella took care of that. Just follow my instructions and the Dark Brotherhood will be back on top. All thanks to you… Listener.'

'Why are you acknowledging me like that?'

'Because you are Listener. Why should I call you any other way, Brother?'

'Because it's the first time you do that,' whispered the Dunmer, but not even Astrid understood what he said. She looked at him smiling darkly, and… sadly, if that made any sense.

 _Something is not quite right…_ Azrael thought. _She's a lot more serious than usual. She's hiding her real emotion behind formalities. She rarely does that. What's in that flicker of sorrow I see in your eyes, Sister? What are you hiding? You could tell me, anytime. But you won't, will you?_

The Elf casted a last, grim glance at his Dark Sister, without saying a single word. He turned, adjusted his quiver and the arrows in it, checked if the dagger and the sword were in place, and then walked ahead, disappearing behind the corner. Astrid heard the Door opening, and then closing. She sighed deeply.

No matter. They would have had their chance to say goodbye.

* * *

Azrael got waken up by a loud neigh. He raised his head, shook it and tried to keep his eyes open. The sun was right at its zenith, as he had planned. Shadowmere snorted, scratching the ground with her hoof.

'Don't be mad, girl,' answered the Elf. 'I slept while you brought me her, now you can sleep while I take care of my business. Right?'

The horse just rubbed her head against Azrael's hand. He smiled and patted her on the side. He was still a bit drowsy, but who wouldn't be after a nap on saddle? On horseback, to be precise. Shadowmere had no saddle.

 _It's not the most comfortable thing ever, but I can even sleep on your back. What could I do without you?_

The Dunmer made the last check.

He would not bring any visible weapons along. Why would a chef carry a steel sword and a longbow? He might be unable able to use those in the first place, and it would raise suspicion. He therefore decided to leave any other weapon tied to Shadowmere's back and bring in Caste Dour only his dagger, carefully hidden under the cuirass and his belt. He had sharpened it before departing. Just in case.

'Don't stray too far from here, got it?' he said to Shadowmere. The horse merely neighed, and the Elf gave her a last pat on the head. 'See you later, then.'

They had stopped on a high ridge, high above the city gates. Azrael looked for a way to descend, and after a bit of searching he found a small groove down which he slid, getting to the road. Dirty, but unscathed. He headed toward the gates, making sure nobody was following him. He had to pay attention, but in a way he finally had some time to think freely. Until he reached the Caste, that is.

He walked through the city, at times casting suspicious glances around.

There were two kinds of people that could predict the possible outcome of Azrael's task. Paradoxically, the one who have strong empathy and feel things others don't even sense might have had a clue. Secondly, the suspicious ones, who have a knack for these kind of situations. Whatever that might be, something was not coming along all right. Azrael himself could not shove off the feeling of having missed, underestimated or straight up forgotten something vital. He could feel something was not going the way it was supposed to.

How, could be asked.

Simple. He was used to doubt. Nothing slipped past his aware perception, little could go past his gaze un-analyzed, and even less could escape his ears. But, above all, nothing slipped under the radar of his mind. His mind, in truth, was his most powerful weapon, and mind meaning everything that could possibly be classified under that concept. His sharp brainpower, cold and calculating logic, unbreakable strength of will and finally, far beneath those, the sea of tranquility that his understanding of the universe created. Azrael could not say where that last part of his being waked, and we will never know as a result. Was it from overcoming the sin of his first kill? Realizing he was brethren of Dragons? His sheer knowledge? Impossible to say. There were things he had always possessed, like his keen power of observation and his great memory, but many others had come afterwards.

This, though, is the very core of existence. Mortals do what they do without truly knowing how they got there, doing that thing in that moment. That's the meaning of being mortal. A temporary being cannot fully understand what that means, but someone that has seen both worlds can say that as an almost certainty, as a personal experience.

That is the point. Of this, and of everything, really: The choice is one; the rest is mere consequence.

Azrael traveled down the Way of the Assassin, and was now near his personal completion. The end of the first line. That doesn't mean something enormous, like the final comprehension of all things, but the solid and firm construction of the Assassin in all his aspects, characterized by his own strengths, weaknesses, and point of view. A true and peculiar frame of mind. One that very few people choose or rather have a chance to go down.

He lacked one last thing, something that not a thing in his life could have given him in that time. It can be called in many ways. Self-esteem, confidence, will-power.

Probably the best way to describe that is a "deeper understanding of himself". What a surprise.

But be wary. An assassin doesn't have complete understanding; his is just one way to see the world and observe how it functions. It's a firm identity and a retreat point one can always count on, but it's first of all a base to create one's own opinion and comprehension of the world.

That's way ahead, though. Azrael had merely come near Castle Dour and was now approaching the entrance. The Imperial soldiers around casted quick glances at him, but then quickly reverted to their previous occupation upon seeing he had no weapons. Apparently, but they couldn't know.

Azrael came closer to the door. A surprise awaited him.

 _Damn it… You? You absolutely needed to be here, didn't you?_

A tall, dark-haired man wearing the Penitus Oculatus outfit was standing right in front of the door, and was looking at the Elf very carefully. And sideways. The Dunmer just took a deep breath and prayed he would have been depressed enough or stupid enough to believe him. Yes, that was Commander Maro in the flesh.

'What's this now?' asked the Commander.

Azrael didn't say a thing. The less he talked in his presence, the better. He just handed over the writ of passage, and hoped his chef hat borrowed from the Sanctuary would do the job. Maro took the small piece of paper and kind of read aloud, murmuring for the most part.

'Order of his eminence… Possessor of these papers… the Gourmet.'

At that word his head sprang up in astonishment.

'I... I'm sorry! Your clothes… of course… I should have realized! Please, excuse my ignorance. Gianna, the castle chef, has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. You should proceed to the kitchens straight away.'

 _Is this for real?_ Azrael wondered, and kept a baleful sneer from appearing on his lips.

He carefully walked past the Commander and opened the door and quickly disappearing behind it, but did not miss the distrustful gaze that the Imperial directed on him.

 _Gabriella was right. The death of his son truly broke him. He is a different man now. A man far more suspicious, and cynical maybe. In one word: dangerous. Ah… Damn, I might have to dispatch him for good once this is all over. We'll see. Now to meet this Gianna…_

The inside of the Castle was pretty dark, illuminated only by torches or other small lights. The windows were few, and very thin, letting through only a small amount of light. That was quite good in case he had to fight, and even better if he had to slip away unseen.

 _It's all going smoothly. Strange. Can't help but think I've overlooked something important._

The three guards that went past him and the two noblemen that crossed his way looked at him obliquely as he walked. Azrael had no real clue of how funny he was, but imagined that with his hair gathered under the chef hat he looked quite hilarious. He also hadn't shaved in a while, and without his long hair his beard might have looked overgrown.

He finally found the kitchen, and saw a short Imperial woman with a long wooden spoon mixing the contents of a large pot. Nothing really specific about her: dark-haired, amber-colored skin, brown eyes. _You name it…_ he thought, refraining from laughing. Humans were all alike, especially the Imperials. She wore a long and white chef tunic, and Azrael immediately spotted something peculiar: the tunic itself was dirty of food here and there, but the sleeves were perfectly clean.

She looked the Dunmer as he approached.

 _Fine… Now we drop the "Dreadfully Me" act, and do some bragging._

'Not an another delivery…' the woman said. 'I told you people, our stocks are fine. Just put whatever you have over there and then get out!'

'Oh, but you misunderstand, Gianna, for I am… The Gourmet!' replied Azrael, loud, as if he was acting. And he kind of was. He looked at the Imperial's eyes widening with surprise.

'I… Well, I just can't believe the Gourmet is a Dark Elf. How difficult it must have been for you in Morrowind. The food there is…'

 _Ah… Humans and their vices,_ though Azrael, but did not drop the act.

'Enough! The Gourmet is here to cook, not to talk!'

'Oh… Yes, but of course… The Emperor has requested your signature dish: the _Potage le Magnifique_. I've taken the liberty of getting it started. But the cookbook only says so much, and everyone makes the Potage differently. I would be honored if we could make it… the Gourmet's special way. The base broth is already boiled. We can get started right now. So… which ingredient should I add next?'

* * *

While Azrael enlisted the series of ingredients, ranging very far from conventional ones, two guards at the door where eavesdropping. And wondering.

'Did he just say vampire dust?'

'Was it not bone dust?'

'No blasted clue. Adding a sweetroll to a soup doesn't have that much sense to me, but this…'

'Ah, shush! Let him work. He's the expert, and no one of us will taste that thing nevertheless.'

'Quiet! Did he just say… A Giant's toe?'

'Didn't hear. Gianna is complaining though.'

From their backs arrived their commander, but they did not even notice until he called out.

'You two! What are you doing?'

'Wondering about the Gourmet recipe. It's not very good, as far as we can tell.'

'Truly?' grinned the captain. 'What ended up in it?'

'A sweetroll, vampire dust, a Giant's toe… And now a septim. A gold coin.'

The officer raised an eyebrow, and shrugged.

'Are we quite sure that guy knows how to cook? The damned things he's putting in that cauldron are unreal.'

'And the Emperor's meal could be that horrific mixture? Seriously?'

'Well, that cook's hardly trying to poison him, is he?'

The three soldiers laughed.

* * *

The man scoffed.

'Why should we be?'

'Your Imperial Highness, I'm sure you're aware of the recent events that occurred here. We were told it's the reason why you're here,' answered the noblewoman.

'You mean the wedding? My cousin apparent murder? An unfortunate misunderstanding, no more. Cold mead, hot tempers… These things happen.'

'Quite,' concurred an old nobleman. 'Yet, that recent business with that young officer? Maro, was it? The son of your commander, plotting your assassination.'

The Penitus Oculatus near the door heard the voice of Gianna from the other side of the door, and looked back. She was still talking, but the door wasn't opening. She always talked a lot when she was nervous. The man at the head of the table, dressed in rich garments, even had the time to answer.

'Yes, an unfortunate turn of events, that. But an isolated incident. And I have been assured the fault was with the man's son alone.'

The door finally opened. The two soldiers looked very carefully at the figure walking behind Gianna. He was quite funny, really. He wore a very sinister-looking suit of leather and metal and a chef hat. The figure immediately split from the cook, and went to the other side of the room. Meanwhile, the man at the head of the table continued talking.

'Truth is, we're in no danger whatsoever. Killing an Emperor can be useful, but befriending one? Now that's beneficial, as I'm sure you'd all agree,' he said, and only then he turned his attention to Gianna, standing next to him with the pot in her hands, and to the Dunmer leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. 'Ah… here we are. Honored guests, I present you… The Gourmet.'

Gianna put some of the… substance she had brought in the bowl of the man.

'Ah…' he sighed. 'The Potage la Magnifique. So delicious… My friends, as Emperor, I of course deserve the right of the first taste.'

The noblemen laughed, some for courtesy and some for hypocrisy, as the man tasted the Potage.

The Penitus Oculatus standing near the door looked around the room, checking if everything was in its place. Despite the Emperor's confidence, the situation could have been dangerous nonetheless. All seemed to be in place, except for the one thing he didn't notice: the Gourmet was out of sight, hidden behind a pillar, with only his leg poking out.

'Oh… Oh how marvelous!' said the man. 'Just delicious. It is everything I had hoped it would be. It… I…'

The man chocked, his voice died in his own throat. A fit of cough got blocked in his lungs.

'I think something's wrong… I…'

Gianna opened her eyes so wide it looked like they could pop out any second. The noblemen gripped the table strongly, and the soldiers raised from the wall. The man at the head of the table let go of the spoon, swayed slightly on the chair; after a bit, his head fell right in the bowl, spraying soup everywhere.

One of the two soldiers unsheathed his sword, the other moved towards the exit.

'By the gods…' he muttered, and then he raised his voice, enough so that the whole castle could hear him. 'The Gourmet and the chef have poisoned the Emperor! Get them!'

The other agent immediately dashed towards Gianna, grabbing her trembling hands. She tried to mutter something, but in vain. Two other imperial soldiers entered the room, one blocking the way that went deeper in the castle, and the other one standing next to the Penitus Oculatus. They were staring right at the Gourmet, who, in the meanwhile, had changed his aspect significantly.

The chef hat lied on the floor, and the Dunmer's head was now covered by a dark crimson hood. A mask made of cloth intertwined with metal pieces covered his face, but the Elf kept it slightly lowered, just enough to have the mouth free. He held a small bottle in his hand, one containing a pale white mixture. A potion.

The soldiers looked at him, groaning and advancing.

'There's not way out. You're done.'

A sarcastic grin appeared on the murderer's lips.

'Am I really?'

He quickly untapped the bottle with one finger and ingested the whole content. His skin turned paler for a moment, then the whole shape of his body started to shimmer, disappear. After a split second all that remained of him was a barely transparent figure, impossible to see in the weak light that came from the windows.

The soldiers looked around themselves, confused, but little time passed and the they heard a scream coming from the imperial soldier at the other door. The one leading deeper into the castle. The first guess would be to check the one going towards the exit.

'Bastard's gone that way!' they cried, going towards their friend.

'We'll get you, you murderous coward!'

The imperial was dead, his eyes opened wide, the hilt of a small dagger emerging from his neck. The two soldiers turned the other way again, realizing their mistake. The killer had thrown a dagger to the person on the other side of the room only to escape from the other door, and then probably sealed the door behind him. He had toyed with them this once.

The Penitus Oculatus agent, in spite of all, grinned.

 _Well… At least he's going to get quite the surprise upon retuning home._


	32. The Ride in the Twilight

Azrael shut the door behind him, and saw his glove becoming visible again just as it let go of the doorknob. His fingers appeared a moment after, which was normal. The effects last longer on the flesh than on the things covering it.

 _Is this really over? Seemed a bit… Lackluster._

The Elf moved forward, doubting his every step. A strong sense of confusion muddled his thoughts. Maybe it was the tension releasing? He couldn't have known even if he wanted to, for two reasons. For once, he couldn't reason clearly. Secondly, that perception faded very quickly.

Azrael was not someone that could be easily surprised, especially when he was on the trail of someone. When the icy veil stabilized, his plan-making abilities got separated in two different phases: in the first he figured out what to do in the worst possible situation, and in the second he thought of possible ways to exploit any advantages. The basis of the whole tactic, though, was always founded on the worst configuration of events possible. He thought about the lowest chances, he did not hope for anything. Thinking like this allowed him to avoid bad surprises and that directly translated to being afraid of less things.

This time around, however, the worst possible situation he managed to put together did not occur. Something far worse happened.

'That man was, by far, the most insufferable decoy the Emperor has ever employed. I'm glad he's dead.'

The eyes of the Dunmer flashed bright red, so bright the glow seemed to irradiate in a straight line. The word "decoy" had caused a blaze both in his mind and his gaze. On any other occasion, that glare would have scared anyone. Right now, however, Commander Maro stood two meters higher that he was, and nothing could scare him there. Three soldiers came out of the door underneath him. They walked straight towards the Elf, sword in hand.

Azrael instinctively reached for the bow, but his hand scratched the empty air. The bow was not there, and neither was the quiver. They were still fastened to Shadowmere's saddle, and she was far away. He had no way to hit the Commander. The only disposable blade he had wasn't with him any longer; it had been used to escape the Castle.

'Ah, but I'm even happier that you killed him.' continued the Commander. 'You, an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood, have just made an attempt on the Emperor's life. Would have succeeded, had it been the real man.'

 _Here we go, the "real man"._

Azrael quaked with anger, for a moment he remembered the times when he was still a Werewolf. That rage that draws you to kill, bite and devour; that was something he hadn't experienced in a long time. He managed to control himself, slowly moving his hand towards the hilt of the ebony dagger hidden in his belt.

'Surprised? So was I, when a member of your Family came to me with the plan.'

The Dunmer stopped. And listened.

'We worked out a deal, you see. An exchange. I get you, and the Dark Brotherhood gets to continue its existence.'

 _If what he says is true… Ah, why shouldn't it? A desperate man, taking his last revenge on the murderer of his son. No reason to lie in such a situation. It's enough to look at how he is trying to desperately speak of it. Well… Let's hear him out._

'But you know what?' he asked. A rhetorical question, but it served to blow off some steam. His voice was trembling. 'I've changed my mind. How about this? I kill you, and butcher each and every one of your miserable friends? Your Sanctuary's being put to the sword right now. That's what I think of this deal. You killed my son! All of you! And now you'll pay the price!'

Azrael drew the dagger. He did not say a word. The time for words had passed. Now it was the time for steel and fire.

'Kill him.' said the Commander, turning back, but then he stopped. He wanted to finish the sentence, to make his last verdict perfect. 'And make sure there's nothing left to bury.'

 _How could this happen?_ That's called overconfidence on the Dark Brotherhood's part. Someone had been foolish enough to trust the enemy, thinking of having him entangled, and got deceived in the process. Commander Maro was a man that had nothing to lose, or so very little it didn't count. He didn't even have his honor to preserve. He had one goal. Revenge.

But he committed the same error: he got overconfident.

He left the place, he turned his back to the assassin that did all of that to him, thinking he would have been no match for his men. He thought that a coward who hid in the shadows like a scared child didn't have the courage to fight face on. He thought too low of his enemy. And he, in turn, paid the price. The ultimate price.

As the three Penitus Oculatus jumped on Azrael, all the rage of the Dunmer had been congealed, transformed into emotionless mind force and physical strength. The icy veil controlled all his motions, calculated them to the last millimeter, and delivered death with surgical precision.

The sword of the first agent bounced right back, parried by the black dagger; the second one slashed thin air, and its holder had to take a moment to localize his enemy again. The third soldier charged towards the Elf with his blade raised above his head and ready to strike.

'You die today!'

The rest happened in mere seconds. Azrael breathed deeply and then dashed so quick he seemed to have vanished. The shape of his right arm moved fast as lighting, carrying the sinister outlines of the sharp dagger forward, towards the soldier's throat. The black blade touched the warm flesh of his victim, and the Dunmer darted ahead, moving his wrist just enough to keep the blade in position.

The agent's head flew off.

'No,' Azrael whispered. 'Not today.'

His voice was perfectly controlled. Calm and measured. Deep and glacial.

The two remaining soldiers steeped back for a moment. The Dunmer wasn't facing them, quite the opposite in fact. The agents saw only his back, his head slightly turned towards them, his dagger in plain sight, its edge dripping red. They probably wouldn't have admitted it, but they were quite scared. Almost a pity there was no one left to tell their side of that tale.

They waited too long.

Azrael sprang backwards, slicing the neck of one and piercing his heart with a stab delivered from the back. The other one tried to react, but the Elf rolled past him and avoided the blade descending on his head. The agent turned, trying to regain sight of him, but never did. Strong hands gripped his waist and lifted him, only to knock him over moments later and crushing his head on the stone floor, breaking the cranium and killing him on impact.

'See you in Oblivion.'

* * *

It was a tragic day. Deceived, defeated, humiliated and yet never broken, Azrael rode back to the only home he had, the only true home he had ever had after his arrival in Skyrim. The Sanctuary was his life, its members his Siblings both in name and soul, and he wouldn't have given up until they had been saved or vengeance had been made. There was nothing that could have made him change his mind.

That day was a tragic one. It really was.

For generations, children born in Dragon's Bridge would have heard the tale of the fiend that came galloping down the main road when the afternoon turns to dusk. Their grandmothers told them that it had passed by swift as the wind, and yet left hoofprints on the road. The dust had risen, and none ever saw well what that daemon looked like. Their grandfathers spoke of old Nord legends, others of elven myths, and still others said they were all creations of a madman.

Nobody will ever know. Well, except for Azrael.

A record held in Fort Sungard, found when the Imperials took over the fortress, speaks of a mystery man that stopped by, asking if they saw anyone coming down the road. "We answered that yes, indeed someone had come down the main road," is written of the record. "Convoys of merchants, patrols of soldiers, hold guards and mercenaries and also a group of Imperial special troopers. At the mention of them the stranger's eyes brightened suddenly. We were terrified. Somehow we knew he had received his answer."

According to the record the mysterious hooded figure ran down the mountain, mounted an enormous black steed and rode South, in the general direction of Falkreath.

No other mention exists about the Elf's ride, aside from a ballad composed in a later date by Talsgar the Wanderer, a notorious traveling bard. One of his songs, the Hymn of the Dire Rider, tells about a shade that had the shape of a black mare mounted by a dark horseman who had the ability to move as quick as the northern gales. When questioned, Talsgar would respond that he had met the Dire Rider at nightfall after a long monotonous day, that the horseman dashed past him at astonishing speed and that he just disappeared after a moment, fast as he was. To this day the Hymn of the Dire Rider is one of his most famous song, but many believe it to be completely made up.

Only one person on Nirn would tell you otherwise. Or maybe none. The only one that knows would just sneer, not answer.

* * *

 _A wagon… Loaded with barrels. One… two… Yeah, two bastards._

It was past dusk, and the night was already quite dark. Dark clouds were gathering in the sky, obscuring the starlight and neither of the two moons would have risen that night. The two agents had to keep a torch with them in order to see something.

'Did they bring in enough oil to do the job?' asked one of the soldiers.

'Aye, they did. Whole place is just a hollow in the terrain, should collapse fairly easily. I just hope they all get out before the explosion goes off. It would be a shame to lose someone like that.'

'Well, we're bound to lose some men. Those Dark Brotherhood characters are going to fight to the very end. Death doesn't scare them.'

'The most annoying trait an enemy can have. Always…'

The man stopped speaking. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gloved hand appeared in the torchlight, crept along his companion's face and completely covered his mouth. Another hand, holding a long and sharp black dagger, materialized on the other side, reached for the neck and then slashed.

He tried to cover his wound, but blood flowed in between his fingers. He tried to speak, maybe cough, but only blood came up his throat.

The dead man collapsed onto his sword-mate, which held him by the shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep him standing. But it was all for naught. He was bleeding profusely and was already unconscious. He would have died in a matter of mere moments. Meanwhile, the black blade reached to the other agent; the gloved hand grabbed his head and bent it, as the blade pierced the neck and cracked the collarbone in one, clear thrust.

 _Two carts… And four of horses. The soldiers at the fort told me they were on foot, so those mares must have been dragging those wagons here. They are a lot. Two… No, three more down there. Oil, they said… Yeah, the stench is real. It's that one they use to prepare traps. Damn it, this is highly explosive, if both these carts were loaded with this kind of things the Sanctuary won't last._

'What in the world…? What happened to them? His torch went out all of a sudden.'

'Iletus! Your torch! There's no wind, how in Oblivion did you manage to put it out?'

Silence.

'Iletus?'

No answer.

'Iletus! Is everything all right?'

He wanted an answer, but Azrael didn't.

'Damn it, you go…'

The twang of a bow. The hiss of an arrow.

The projectile flew downwards from a small shrub towards the man that was speaking. It reached its target before he had the time to do anything else, and pierced the only spot not covered by the chest plate: the neck. The tip of the arrow sunk in the warm flesh and punctured the throat, emerging on the other side.

The one beside didn't even had the time to say "oh damn". The arrow got to his cheek first, cracking the bones and killing him on impact. The third one faced a similar fate, frozen of the spot by utter panic and totally out of control. The projectile punctured him right between the eyes, tearing through the cranium.

The incredible thing was those experienced soldiers, trained all their life to be able to react to any threat, were now congealed in place like novices. Thing is, they were trained to fight an enemy they can see or that they at least know is there. Here, in that moment, their enemy was practically non-existent. Their enemies had been three arrows fired from a shrub, it never was a living being. Maybe that is the key factor, the one thing Azrael used time and time again, exploiting his ability to eliminate his adversaries without ever showing nor letting them know what hit them. Some of them wouldn't be able to tell what killed them or how they died, even if they could talk.

There is no training that can prepare you to fight and win an inexistent foe.


	33. Trial by Fire

'Farewell. I might join you soon, Brother.'

The Black Door was closed, as per usual, but beside it several barrels lied, dripping oil. The stench of it left no other options. Azrael coated his fingers with it and sniffed, perceiving the scent of some of its components, mainly Nightshade and sulfur. With apparent calm, he opened his hand and a small flame sparkled in it, igniting the oil in no time and burning very rapidly. The flames continued to blaze for ten seconds or such, which was quite a long time.

 _A full barrel of this could explode with sufficient energy to destroy the rocks of the ceiling. The entire structure would collapse, and bury everyone left inside._

The Dunmer raised his head, adjusted his mask, and then whispered slowly at the Door. His voice carried a supreme and glacial calm. Even in the face of death, he had no fear.

'I'm here,' he said.

The night was silent, only the snort and neigh of the horses could be heard. There were a total of five corpses there, four of Penitus Oculatus agents, and one of a Dark Brother. Festus Krex. A hail of arrows was stuck in his body, and he was fixed to a nearby tree by the projectiles. His face was unrecognizable, just the bald head made certain that it was him. The sorcerer had his hands to his side, slightly curved. He was obviously casting a spell just before he died. Azrael followed the shape of his palm, and looked where the previous fireball might have hit; just a few meters ahead, there was a big area scorched by flames, which was proof enough that he had fought before he died.

A voice came from the Door.

'What… Is the music… Of life?'

'Silence, my Brother.'

'Welcome… home.'

The Black Door opened, and the Elf stepped ahead. Days later, when he told Babette that the only thing that came out of his mouth in that moment had been lapidary sarcasm, she could not stop laughing.

Even though his sad sneer could not be seen, his softened voice could still be heard.

'Quite the warm welcome indeed.'

In more ways than one.

* * *

'And who d'you think was?'

'Dunno. One of these corpses. Does it matter?'

'Suppose not. But what's taking the others so long? The sooner we get out of here, the better. Smoke's getting bad, this place will be raging soon.'

'Your last concern.'

The two agents fell to the ground very quickly, struck by arrows with black vanes. They did not even have the time to turn and look. The first one connected in the jaw of the soldier, the other one in the throat. The corpses collapsed on the floor.

The shape of the Elf appeared in the smoke, illumined by the blazes. With his black cloak flapping behind him and all that cinder that reduced visibility, he was truly dreadful. Just a black shadow, the very aspect of death.

The table where Astrid always used to stay had been already burned to a crisp, and the bookshelf on the right was already charred and still flaming. Astrid's bedroom, on the left of the main room, was a unique conflagration that raged violently without stopping for a moment. The stone was blacked by the smolder, and it was really hard to breathe. The Dunmer felt spikes of soot scraping his lungs.

On the floor, just beside the two bodies, lied a third corpse. Azrael sighed deeply as he kneeled beside it, turned it and recognized who it was. Blood covered his face, but the green scales could still be seen.

 _Veezara. Let's see… Cuts. Shallow ones. One on the leg, one on the chest, two on the shoulders and one on the neck. He fought, but got outnumbered. He must have been attacked by a large number of enemies, and defended himself well. None of these blows would have been lethal on their own._

The Elf walked ahead, renouncing to rush through the room as soon as he saw the oil that had been spilled on the ground. One false move, and he could have slipped, or one of the blazes could have hit the pool of the flammable substance, and no Dunmer blood or arcane defense could have saved you from that.

He heard the ceiling crumbling, raining dust on his head. He ducked and dodged, but two chunks of stone almost fell right on his head. Splinters flew all around, striking his armor and his hood, piercing the thick cloth and hitting his face, leaving small scratches. Azrael bared his teeth in a groan. Yet another rock fell near him, pushing him away and making him lose his balance. He put his hands forward, rolling away from the danger and standing up perfectly straight at the end of it.

'Come on, Dread Father,' he screamed, 'take my life if you dare!'

But the Dread Father didn't answer. Nor did he take him life.

As Azrael walked in the next room, the main one, he closed his eyes for a bit, and when he reopened it they were flashing red with rage.

The hall was a flaming inferno. Fire was consuming everything, including things that it should not be able to burn. The smoke raised to the ceiling and stopped there, having no way of getting out, and it was slowly descending. The air was filled with ashes, and the first noises that reached the Elf's ears, aside from the sparkling of the fire, was a loud and smothered roar. The noises were the first thing Azrael had noticed walking in there, and then he got a clearer view.

It was Arnbjorn, but you could have told it only if you knew he as a Werewolf. The Dark Brother wasn't the everyday man with his long white hair, but a furry black beast that strafed and slashed with fury and force; his claws and teeth were long and sharp.

The beast sliced the soldier on its left side with a powerful swipe done with both paws, and gnawed the man in front of it. A third man charged, with a torch raised, and touched the monster with it; its fur ignited instantly, and the flames spread from its back to its side. A loud howl echoed in the smoldering air. The soldier tried to finish the beast off with a thrust, but four long talons pierced his belly before he could move a millimeter. He coughed. Blood came out of his mouth.

'Damn you! Die!'

Four other soldiera rushed from the side, but they were unprepared for what would come. They were focused on one threat, and completely ignored the other. Not entirely their fault. It was really difficult to spot that other threat.

A lot of things happened very quickly.

The agents charged forward, lunging at the Werewolf with their sword raised and ready to strike; out of the four that did, two only arrived to the intended destination. In the midst of the battle and the crackling of the flames, they could not hear the twang of the bow, but they did hear the soft click that came from beside them. The barrel that stood behind the rock, that in turn divided it from the burning furniture, got hit on the steel joint. The wood collapsed, the oil escaped from the cracks and flooded the floor. A moment later it touched the fire.

That was the biggest explosion Azrael had seen in quite a while.

The oil ignited instantly, spreading the flames and blasting everything away with great strength. Two of the four soldiers got caught in the fiery burst, which charred their legs and seemed to vaporize their feet. The cries of agony were a lot louder than the flames, and continued until their legless torsos stopped moving.

The explosion had destabilized the pillar of stone, which crumbled and pulverized both in its middle point and and its base, where the blast had hit the hardest. Meanwhile the two remaining agent did not stop their charge and attacked the Werewolf. The claws of the beast reached the chest of one of them, tearing his flesh and shredding his bones, but the second one was luckier and managed to thrust the blade into the furry torso of the monster.

'That was your last mistake.'

The pillar of rock shifted, cracked cobblestone and gravel fell to the ground. The Penitus Oculatus soldier turned around and looked at the person that spoke. His gaze was blurred by the smoke, his eyes were filled with tears and ash. He could see little. What came towards him him, walking fast and nimbly, looked like death made shape. The vague black figure was distorted, shimmering, its outlines merging with the cinder and the fire. It drew closer and closer still, a long cloak flapping behind it and a dark armor covering its body. Dark shadows floated around him, shrouding him and creating a sinister aura, a veil of despair that followed his as he walked.

The soldier raised his blade in a desperate parry. One of his hands got grabbed, twisted and the sword fell from his grip. Soon after, a blade reached his throat and ripped it. The agent fell to the floor, while the stone pillar finally collapsed on the ground, severing the corpse in two and shaking the whole room with the strength of the impact. Some grit came down from the ceiling.

'Well… Not exactly,' murmured the Dunmer, shifting the legs of the agent with his foot. 'You also missed the parry.'

'Azrael…' groaned a voice, coming from ahead.

'I'm here, Arnbjorn.'

'Listen…' whispered the man. He had reverted back to his human form, and he was completely nude. A small stream of blood came up his mouth as he spoke. 'Have you… killed him? The Emperor?'

'I thought I did,' answered the Elf, approaching his Brother. 'It was a trap.'

'I guessed as much… When they came here. Listen, Brother… Kill these bastards first, and then… him. Do it for us.'

'I will.'

The Werewolf breathed for the last time, and then lied lifeless before the Dunmer. Azrael looked at his body losing strength and control. The veins on his throat did not move anymore, his chest stopped raising and lowering.

'I don't know what awaits you, if it is the Void or the Hunting Grounds. Either way, good journey.'

An explosion brought him back to his task; the powerful quake shook both the floor and the ceiling, from which fell some sand and pulverized stone. The explosion Azrael had caused had incinerated the room for good, and the flames were consuming every bit of oil left.

The Dunmer stood and looked around. He had to find the others before the entire place burned or, worse, blew up. The flames were consuming everything, and they continued incessantly to devour all that stood in their path. The Dunmer examined intently his surroundings, trying to find the way forwards in all the smoke.

 _So… Gabriella's missing,_ he thought, rushing forward, covering his eyes with an arm. _Nazir, Babette… Lis the spider. And Astrid, obviously. Damn, who betrayed us?_

He didn't want to admit it, but he had his suspects.

The room where Babette usually stayed was burned, like everything else. The fire had consumed the alchemy lab and was working his way towards the shelves with the ingredients. Azrael didn't want to be near that when the stock of Ectoplasms would have got in contact with the fire, or else he would have died from the explosion. The table in the center had been utterly carbonized, and next to it lied one of the missing members, alongside a Penitus Oculatus agent. The soldier had an arrow stuck in his torso, and beside him was Gabriella, her hood lowered and her face bloodied. Her bow was just beside her corpse, which was covered by a large amount of cuts and slashes, and lied in a pool of blood. Same thing as Veezara. They just had gotten outnumbered and overrun.

 _To Oblivion with you, soldiers. Really noble of you to extinguish a group of murderers by murdering them. Very noble indeed._

The was no time to grieve, no time to sit and think. The dead were dead, and the living might have needed help still. In the end, there was one slim detail important to the Elf.

 _Why am I even surprised? It's Humans, after all._

Azrael continued his run. Long blazes erupted from the wood and from the stores of oil, but he just avoided those and did not stop. As he went deeper into the Sanctuary, his possibilities of coming back became slimmer and slimmer, but he did not care much. He had to save his Siblings, the only family he had had since he arrived in Skyrim. The long cascades of flame and the ash in the air did not scare him, and neither did the continues quakes that run through the rock.

 _Damn… This place is a flaming inferno… Even if someone survives this, I don't know where me might go, if we'll be able to start again. Good thing for me…_ Azrael though, addressing that joke to himself. _Should I survive, and let's put a gigantic if before that sentence, I might witness the extinction of one if the most notorious organizations in recorded history. Lucky me._

'If I am to die today, so be it. But you'll not soon forget the Dark Brotherhood!'

Azrael turned right. The voice had come from below, from the room with the long table they used to eat together in. It was Nazir, quite surely, even if it got muffled by another blast in the distance.

The Elf rushed down the stair, and had to cover his eyes. A large pool of oil was burning on the side of the room, and the flames raised to the ceiling; he recognized the table only because he knew those few burned planks were once part of it. The wall quaked violently, and more gravel fell from above; Azrael rolled forward, and arrived right at the side of the Redguard, facing an agent.

'Oh, good…' smirked Nazir, seeing his shadow coming. 'Let's thrash this one for good!'

'You'll not get me!' cried the soldier. He blocked the uppercut of the Redguard's saber and backpedaled. 'I'm Arcturus, commander of the Emperor special forces! I'll not be killed by two cutthroats!'

Nazir backed for a moment, waiting to strike together with Azrael, but the Elf had other plans.

The Redguard looked at his Dark Sibling as he dashed forward. The Penitus Oculatus agent seemed to be very confused by that sudden movement, and had to back off even more. He was now close to the wall. His broadsword and the long blade of Skyforge steel began to whirl, hissing and clashing, but the focused eye of Nazir caught one little detail: slowly and gradually, the rhythm of the hits was getting faster and faster, and Azrael continued to hit and parry without the slightest problem, while the imperial kept getting pushed nearer to the wall. The Elf was controlling the flow of that duel, interchanging tactics and fighting styles continually.

Lieutenant Arcturus struck two times, but Azrael deflected those with a simple shift of his wrist, then attacked three times, aiming for vital spots. After parrying one last swing, he quickly pulled the dagger out from his side. He stretched backwards, and the unleashed a winding hurricane of metal on the soldier, spinning his arms and pirouetting without ever stopping. The blades left traces of dim light in the air, making the floating ash divided where they swung.

After a fraction of a second, the Imperial stood impaled against the wall, with six diagonal cuts that went from his right shoulder to his left thigh. He pressed his palms on two of them, but the other four soon started to bleed profusely. Shortly after, his legs failed him.

'So you are alive,' said Nazir, approaching the Elf, while he cleaned his blades. 'I was starting to wonder.'

'It was all a trap. Someone set us up,' replied the Elf, glacial, putting the dagger away.

'Considering most of us are now dead, I assumed as much. And before you ask, no: I don't think it was you. Well, maybe I did, but you saving my sorry hide just now sort of erased any doubts. So thanks.'

A painfully strong tremor shook the floor and cause even more gravel to fall near them.

'I'd say we need to get out of here.'

'You've got that right! Only a matter of time before we're roasted alive. Come on!'

Azrael took the lead, as he ran up the crumbling stairs. Right after Nazir had passed, some of it collapsed down into the room below.

'Not coming back this way, are we?' said Nazir.

'Makes little difference, I don't think that way was safe anyway.'

'Let's push forwards then.'

'Where is Babette?'

'Damn if I know. She wasn't here when they gently nocked at our door. Wait…!'

'Saw him.'

Another soldier lunged at them from a corner, covered in ash. Nazir again watched as Azrael took care of this new enemy with precision, strength and grace. He ducked and avoided the first hit, dodged and then cut both legs of his enemy at the height of the knee in one, clean sweep. His black cloak flapped behind him in all those movements, shrouding him in black. In between those fires, covered in ash and fast as he was, his image once again resembled the closest to death that could walk on this realm of existence. The bloodied blade got lowered only after a few moments.

'To think I was the master once…' said Nazir.

'Were you ever?' sneered the Elf.

'Well… Kind of.'

They kept on running, walking past some of the rooms. If not for their memories, they would not have recognized them. The smoke in the air was getting worse and worse, Nazir began to cough violently as they ran past the coffin of the Night Mother. Azrael looked around, trying to find a way, and spotted it: the other door of the room was open, full of smoke and cinder, but not flooded with flames.

'That way.'

Nazir went in before him, luckily for him. A moment later another explosion made the ceiling tremble, and this time it actually did some damage. The door collapsed, dragging a good portion of the ceiling with it, and burying that last passage under gravel, rock and cobblestone. Azrael was trapped.

'Azrael!'

'Go, I'll find a way.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am.'

His voice did not tremble, but it should have. There was not way out of that flaming inferno. No escape, no possible means to survive the blast that would have eventually come. After all, the barrels of oil had been positioned, and it was only a matter of time before the flames reached them.

But then, out of nowhere, he heard a voice.

 _Listener… I am your only salvation… Come, embrace me…_

Azrael looked back, and closed his eyes. That was very true indeed. He ran towards the coffin, and he does not remember much else, only a confused memory of a titanic blast and the soothing voice of the Night Mother, saying "sleep". He suffered from a grave concussion and temporary damage to the inner ear, and the next he thing he sensed was Babette talking. Of the time that passed in between, he did not recall anything.


	34. Burning Agony

'Wow… this place has been annihilated.'

'You don't say.'

'Stop that, Nazir. It's not funny.'

'My point exactly.'

They had arrived in the main room, and they were both quite stunned. The stalagmites had crumbled, and parts of the ceiling collapsed alongside them. Now small cracks allowed the rays of the Sun to illuminate even that depth, where sunlight was never seen. Soot covered everything, and the air was still filled with ash; even the surface of the water was completely mixed by cinder.

And, talking of the small lake, the coffin of the Night Mother was floating in it.

'Hey…' said Babette all of a sudden. 'There's where Azrael entered!'

'In the coffin of the Night Mother? You can't be serious.'

'I am! Pull that thing out of the water, then we will see.'

The Redguard entered into the lake and grabbed the coffin, pulling nearer to dry land. The expression on his face said more than words could.

'Hurry up, Nazir! I'm telling you, he's in there.'

'I'm going… as fast… as I can,' he groaned, pulling the coffin on the land and trying to put it straight. 'You little she-devil. I don't see you… Helping.'

'I'm not exactly built for manual labor,' explained the little Vampire. 'Now come on, you've almost got it.'

'Yes. One more… Pull.'

The coffin finally stood straight, in its usual position. Nazir could have swore he heard some noises coming from inside, some thuds mainly.

'Can you get it open?' asked Babette.

'I think so,' replied the Redguard. 'Just hold on a moment.'

He tried to open the lock, but it was encrusted with ashes. He looked at the little girl for a moment, grinning, and then tried again. After a few tries the door finally unblocked and opened widely.

Azrael lost his support and fell on his knees. Nazir held him by the armpits, preventing him from slamming his face on the ground. He truly was inside the coffin. As soon as he regained his perception, he started moving his muscles all at once, trying to free himself.

'Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down,' the Redguard said. 'It's all right. You've been through a lot. Maybe you should just sit down for a bit…'

The Dark Elf coughed twice and hissed grimly as he tried to pick himself up. His feet slipped on the smily rocks underneath his boots. Nazir gave him a little help, and he managed to stand. He trembled a little bit, but was quite steady on his own feet.

'No time,' he said. His voice was hushed by the ashes he had likely breathed. 'I have to speak with Astrid. She's here in the Sanctuary. Follow me, you two.'

'She's here? By Sithis, I thought we'd lost her. Let's go!'

Babette looked at the Listener, both with affection and a fair amount of respect. He had just been tossed around by the explosion, left in that coffin for six hours, and all of that after having been on horseback for the whole day before. He had already shown his skills, and now he had shown his even greater resolve and strength of will. He was really an unwavering person, and an enemy not to be underestimated.

Azrael looked around, first towards the exit and then in the opposite direction. His gaze went from one end of the cave to the other. Babette followed the movement of his eyes, and tracked where they stopped: possible ways out of that place, or possible places where Astrid was hiding.

'Do you know where to find her?' Babette asked him.

'No, but I have my clues,' he answered. 'For example that I didn't see her when I came through here, so she must be in a place where I didn't look.'

'Cicero's chamber?'

'It had been already devoured by fire.'

'The pool of water where Lis lived?'

'It collapsed,' said Nazir.

'Somewhere near her bedroom, maybe.'

Azrael turned around and looked the girl with a strange light in his eyes, a droll and somewhat amused gaze. He grinned weakly at her.

'That could be indeed,' he said, nodding slowly, his voice touching the deepest notes his voice could reach. 'That's the only placed I did not search and that did not get completely devastated. Smart one, little Vampire.'

Babette smirked weakly in response, trying to understand how he could even smile in a situation like that. It was not disrespectful or anything, just very hard to do with all that happened. Of all the Brotherhood, three, at most four, of its members survived and he was still able to grin mockingly. There was nothing that could put down his confidence. He had one goal and the means to achieve it. Nothing else mattered. His heart was stone, his mind ice.

Azrael did not add anything else, and went up the stairs. Nazir and Babette exchanged a concerned glance and followed him, instinctively staying at a safe distance. They went further up and arrived in the first room of the Sanctuary, which was completely burned. Next door there was Astrid's bedroom, and even the Dunmer hesitated a bit before entering. Everything inside was scorched beyond recognition.

'This place has been burnt to a crisp,' said Nazir.

'Truly?'

'Your sarcasm is painful at times, Brother.'

'Thanks for the reminder.'

'You're incorrigible, Azrael,' commented Babette.

'I'll take that as a compliment.'

 _It's not stubbornness, it's worse. It's unbreakable strength of will,_ the girl said to herself.

The small table and the bed had been consumed, and the carbonized remains had been tossed all around by the final explosion, but there was something Azrael had never seen before. There was an opening in the wall, that led somewhere. A secret passage maybe. He entered it and… Well, saw something that he would have rather avoided, if only he could.

'Alive…' whispered Astrid. 'You… are alive… Thanks Sithis.'

'Astrid, what in…'

Nazir and Babette wondered what Azrael had seen, and they turned the corner, only to shiver at the sight. The body of their former leader was a perfect representation of the rest of the Sanctuary: consumed by flames. The skin had vaporized, the muscle bundles were exposed and burnt, her hair seemed to have vanished. Azrael only recognized her by the face features, which were kind of familiar even in that quite sorry state.

Astrid stopped the Elf, and replied immediately. 'Please, don't. There is much… I have to say. And… not much time. I'm sorry. So very sorry. The Penitus Oculatus… Maro… He said that by giving you to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone. Forever. By Sithis, I was such a fool. All of this… it's all my fault. You are the best of us, and I nearly killed you… as I've killed everyone else…'

There we no words. No understanding. Only one person there found the strength.

'So you are the one who sent me to die,' replied Azrael. His voice was cold as ice, undecipherable.

'Yes. I set you up. I wanted you dead,' said Astrid, without stopping, cramming all out in one breath. 'I betrayed you, the Night Mother, and everything I hold dear. And now Maro has betrayed me. I just wanted things… to stay the way they were. Before Cicero, before the Night Mother. Before… you. I thought I could save us. I was wrong. But you're alive! So there's still a chance. A chance to start over, rebuild. That's why I did… this. Don't you see? I prayed to the Night Mother! I am the Black Sacrament.'

'I see the candles, and I see the corpse… Even the Nightshade. But what are you saying?'

'I'm saying you were right. The Night Mother was right. The Old Ways… they guided the Dark Brotherhood for centuries. I was a fool to oppose them, and to prove my… sincerity, I have prayed for a contract. You lead this Family now. I give you the Blade of Woe, so that you can see it through.'

Babette had lived long, saw things a man would rather not see. She slew, she killed, she did atrocities that one should pray not to suffer. Death and mischief followed her wherever she went, suffering walked behind her as if it was her own shadow. But hundred of years had passed, and she had never seen something like that. Astrid had been the thing that kept them united even in those times of trial, even in the worst conditions ever. She now officially was the make or break.

She had kept the Family together, and now she was the one disintegrating it.

'You must kill… Me.'

Those words spelled the end of the phase of transition of the Dark Brotherhood.

Babette looked at Azrael. His fate and the one of the Family he was now the leader of was in his own hands. The act was to be his. He could not have backed off from that.

The Listener kneeled beside the burned body of Astrid, who laid in wait, helpless. Her pupils were the only thing that moved, and they followed the hands of the Dunmer. His fingers surrounded the hilt of the Blade, which had dangled from Astrid's belt since Babette had know her. It was her blade, and in a way a symbol of her power. Giving it to Azrael didn't just give him a weapon to complete the execution, but a clear sign of destiny: she was passing her authority over to him.

Nazir looked, and thought that in the half-gloved hand of the Dunmer the Blade looked strangely different: Astrid kept it always in sight. It was her distinctive weapon, the thing she always brought with her, something that represented her identity and status. In the palm of the Elf it looked different. The edges shined, but grimly, threatening. That sinister glow followed the blade along its shape. While in the hands of Astrid it had been a symbol of power, now it seemed to have returned to its roots, to have recovered its true purpose. Now it was once again an image of death.

Azrael took it with both hands and brought the edge right upon Astrid's heart. Her eyes opened wider, Nazir breathed and swore not to do that again until the metal had found the flesh it was supposed to penetrate. He waited. Not for too long.

 _Sithis… Your daughter draws near,_ thought Babette.

Azrael sighed, and thrust. Astrid closed her eyes, and smiled. Her face could not move, but the few muscles that could put in motion on her face painted an expression of great peace.

'Thank you.'

* * *

Azrael stood up, and looked still for a moment at the coffin of the Night Mother. He then turned around, and looked at Nazir. He had a sad grin on his lips. Babette looked at them as they had the first, brief exchange of words after they saw Astrid.

'Something troubling you?' he asked the Redguard.

'Yes, that is place is a mess. I guess this is the end.'

'Wrong,' answered the Dunmer. 'The Night Mother just spoke to me again.'

'What? And… What did she say?'

'I must speak with Amaund Motierre. Once more.'

'Amaund Motierre? But that would mean…'

'The contract is still on. The Emperor has yet to meet his fate. This time the true one, hopefully.'

'You mean… there's still a chance? But how? Our plan has gone to ruin, everyone is dead, the Family…'

'Our Family lives.'

'Damn… All right, then. Go. Go, Azrael. Find out what that slimy bastard Motierre has to say, then send the Emperor to Sithis. Ah, but when you're done, there's no use returning here, is there?'

'It's a long journey, but you could go to the Dawnstar Sanctuary.'

'Yes… we could make a proper home there. Listen, when you're finished with this Emperor business, meet Babette and me there. I'll find some way to move the Night Mother. Don't worry. Now go! And come back with a barrel full of gold, right? Babette, my girl, pack your things. We're moving.'

'I was hoping you'd say that.'

Azrael did not wait any longer. He brushed the dust off his cloak, moved it away from his shoulders and set off. He had his bow, his quiver, the Blade of Woe and his armor. That was more than enough. He covered the entirety of the room with six, really long steps.

'Azrael, wait!'

The Dunmer turned towards the little Vampire girl.

'Yes?'

'I… Nazir, can I go with him?'

'That's all right. Where will we meet?'

'At the Whiterun Crossroads.'

'Getting a lift, huh?' smirked the Redguard. 'Fine. You're not built for manual labor either way, if I recall correctly.'

* * *

'Good thing we have Shadowmere.'

Azrael grabbed the hair of the horse stronger and stirred right. Shadowmere snorted and obeyed, galloping at extreme speed. Only when they were already in the open, far from the road and with no trees to avoid and no sudden turns to make, Azrael managed to answer.

'What's the problem with other animals? I mean, beside the fact that they are not as quick as Shadowmere.'

'Other animals get quite spooked when they sense me. Have you ever wondered why the Silver Hand bring dogs or trained wolves along?'

'The ones I have encountered did not.'

'Ah yes… That would be stupid to hunt a Werewolf using wolves… They would just respect their brethren and protect them. Either way, you might notice that some other creatures might get frightened of aggressive when they sense me.'

'Not very convenient.'

'Not at all, but it's fun.'

A new copse was ahead, and Azrael once again gripped tighter to the dark hair of the steed. Shadowmere dashed in between the trees without slowing much, and then accelerated again once they ended up in the open once again. This time there would have been no interruptions for quite a long time. They were on the opposite side of the river where Riverwood was, and Azrael knew there wouldn't have been any obstacles for a while.

'What about this adorable lady?' Babette asked.

'Shadowmere? I don't know. Astrid said I could keep her a little longer, but now… If you have no objections, I would gladly keep her with me. She's been of more help to me than most of the people in this iceland.'

'There will be no objections. She belongs to you.'

'Perfect.'

'What will you do when all will be over? When the Emperor is killed and all is at its place again?'

'I'll do whatever the Night Mother says, but then I'll have to leave matters into your own hands for a while. Unfortunately, I have killed a Dragon…' he said, only Babette could have caught the irony in his voice. 'That makes me a person of vital importance. I will have to focus on that task for a while. But, when all is finished, I will return. I'll leave Nazir in charge while I'm away.'

'Wise enough.'

'What do you actually think about what happened? About Astrid.'

'If I hadn't heard it with my own ears I wouldn't have believed it. How could Astrid have done this to us? Strangely, I feel only pity for her…'

'That's not strange at all, I feel the same thing. She… I know I sound arrogant saying this, but she feared me terribly.'

'The truth is not arrogance… Azrael, cover me! If I catch the sunlight I will burn worse than the Sanctuary.'

'Easy, it just shifted,' answered the Elf. He put the cloak on Babette again, covering her better this time. That black mantle did wonders against the sunlight. 'Anyway, you were saying?'

'That she did fear you, and terribly. She feared your ideas, your independence and you abilities. She failed to understand that you trusted her like without doubt, and saw you as a threat to her place and to the Family. Sometimes I get the feeling we all acted as single pieces of the wheel, that everything played out in order for the Night Mother to regain complete control over the Brotherhood. I wonder if this massacre happened because of a bad chain of events, or because of someone else's manipulation.'

'Very deep reasoning for someone like you.'

'That sarcasm of yours… What do you mean, "like me" anyway? A Vampire? A child grown old?'

'No, just you. That's it.'

'So what? If that's your only comment, you'd better have a better idea than me.'

'I don't, not necessarily. It's just one thing: I don't believe in Fate. That's that.'

'Interesting.'

'I still do not know exactly who I am and why I ended up here, but I'm sure it wasn't Fate. Or, if it was, it wasn't the generic Fate that guides us. It was the Fate that is carved in my very soul, that dictates the way I perceive and act. The things I do, the things I think. That Fate I can accept. It's funny, but… The more I kill, the more I learn about myself. We grow through suffering, and every time we kill we feel the torment of the person that dies. Through that, we grow, we become something more.'

'Might I point something out?'

'I'm all ears.'

'You and me are not the same thing. You are different. I've sensed it when you've walked in the Sanctuary for the first time. You have the potential to become something bigger, something… more. You may not stop at becoming the perfect killing machine. You might achieve something more.'

'And what might that be?'

'A greater understanding, I think.'


	35. The Left Hand of Fate

The waves shattered against the coast, damping the black sand and then drawing back in a foamy backwash. A strong gale blew from the North, from the unknown expanse of the Sea of Ghosts, bending the small plants that grew at the edges of the freezing swaps. The surface of the see reflected the light of the moons, creating strange shapes when the waves broke the reflection. Some fishes jumped in and out of the water every once in a while, never getting too close to the shore. On the black sand roamed some mudcrabs and three horkers, and father away there was a Troll that kept to the woods. Over the river that flowed into the see some meters away flew entire clouds of dragonflies, looking for smaller insects to eat.

Over the gigantic stone arch, was Solitude. It was the heart of night, and the city was still sleeping peacefully; the weak light that got out of the walls and the strong brightness that shined from the Lighthouse barely reached the coast, but their bright was immediately noticeable against the dark horizon. The faint artificial light was too few to shroud the bright of the stars, which shone weakly in the firmament. Alongside the moons, they gave everything a pale tint.

A perfect equilibrium. Soon to be broken.

Nothing noticable came at first, just a strange vibe that traversed the air. Nothing significant happened. There were no people there and none of the animals noticed it. They did notice the second quivering though, and this time some mudcrabs turned around in that direction. Something was not right, even from an animal point of view. Something was changing, someone was drawing closer and closer.

Then, suddenly, out of apparently nowhere, came a loud neigh. The equilibrium was broken.

The Troll that kept to his small grove retired even deeper into it, groaning and breathing heavily; the mudcrabs and the horkers immediately moved towards the water and entered it, scaring the fishes and making them move even further away from the coast. The dragonflies dispersed, went in all directions, scattered and fled. Nothing remained on the black sand of the shore. A silent desolation took over.

After a moment, between two trees, a dark shadow appeared. It had the shape of a colossal horse ridden by a grim horseman, cloaked in black. The monster had two pair of eyes, two higher up and dark red, while the two lower ones were blazing of a hellish red flame. The shadow galloped towards the shore, in the general direction of Solitude, leaving shallow hoof tracks on the ground. The figure stopped on the line that divided dry land from the sea, standing straight, looking forward.

There was something, something big, that floated between one coast and the other. It was a ship, a pretty big one judging by the distance between the light of the stem and the one on the stern. Katariah, that was the name of the vessel.

'This is it…' whispered the upper part of the shadow. 'All scores must be settled. Maro received what he deserved, now it's the turn of someone else.'

There was a moment of silence; the only noise other from the voice of the shadow was the shattering of the waves.

'Maro… By Azura, I've grown crueler. He got something neither best nor worse than death. But he accepted, that's what's most interesting.'

* * *

Almost two hours earlier, the two had a discussion at the harbor. Azrael had arrived covered by the shroud of night, and overheard the commander talking to one of his soldiers. What he heard had changed the outcome of their unfortunate meeting.

'And the outpost at Dragon's Bridge?' asked the soldier. His worried tone made the Dunmer very curious.

'It'll be shattered by the end of the month.'

 _Planning to leave, are they?_ guessed the Elf.

'Very good. And you'll be returning… Well, if you don't mind me asking, where exactly will you be going now, sir?'

'Now there's an excellent question. An excellent question, indeed. Truth is, as soon as the Emperor sets sail, I'm resigning my position.'

'Oh… I see. Well then, let me just say that it's been an honor serving under you, Commander Maro.'

'The honor has been mine. You should be proud of what we've accomplished here. The Dark Brotherhood is no more. And the Emperor, finally, is safe.'

'Mind if I interrupt?'

The Commander and the soldier turned towards the voice, which had come from the shadows. A vague shape emerged from the dark, and once brightened up by the torchlight it was immediately recognizable.

'By the gods… you! But it can't be. You're dead. You…' said the Commander. His breath was so heavy that it looked like he was about to suffocate on his own anger. 'You can't be alive!'

'I must be immortal, then. And I also think you should check Castle Dour's banisters. I left some of your men there,' said the figure, cryptically, but the Commander knew of what he was talking about. 'You,' the shadow said to the soldier beside the Commander. 'This doesn't concern you. You don't have the blood of my Siblings on your blade, so you're free to go. Your Commander is who interests me.'

'No, this concerns me,' replied the agent, quaking but beginning to comprehend the situation. 'I will defend Commander Maro to the death.'

'Don't be a fool,' replied Azrael. 'Another death will mean nothing. I'll have no remorse about killing you, I'm just giving you an option.'

'A pointless one.'

'You think you can take me, do you?' sighed the Dark Elf. 'You still think that? I escaped the trap your Commander prepared from me, I survived the flaming tomb that my Sanctuary has become, and you still think you can face me and live?'

'You're not invincible! You can be stopped!'

'Nothing can stop death in its tracks.'

'Liar! Arrogant murderer! Draw your blade, and face your end!'

The agent drew his sword, and stopped, awaiting for the murderer to pull out his weapon. Azrael, however, did nothing of that sort. He just waited, patiently.

'Come on! Kill me, if you can!' screamed the soldier.

'As you will it,' hissed the Elf.

It all happened in a dark flash, as per usual. Azrael dashed forward, ducked under the swing of the soldier and drew a large sweep while without even raising. The Blade of Woe continued its arc to the back of the Dunmer, and it was dripping red.

The soldier fell, his abdomen cut deeply by the swipe.

The Commander did not wait, and attacked immediately. He sprinted forward, lowering his blade from above his head from the left to his right side. He only hit thin air, as the Dark Elf dodged to the left, disorienting the man. Maro turned, searching for his opponent, but his guard was slightly opened because of the turn. A sharp blade blinked and hit his wrist, and then the whole shape of the murderer appeared in front of him. He took a fist to the jaw, a kick in the ribs and then a blade stab to the shoulder. Even though he could not keep track of what was happening, he realized one thing. That killer wasn't actually trying to kill him, only to neutralize him.

The Commander fell to the ground; his forearm got bent by the edge of the harbor foot-bridge. He loosened the grip on his sword to the point that it escaped from his hand and fell into the water.

'I feel like there's got to be a moral to this story.'

Maro looked at Azrael, who stood just ahead of him. His blade was already back in the belt. His eyes were completely inexpressive, even if they still burnt of a red glow.

'Yes…' replied the Commander, trying to understand if the stabwound on the shoulder was lethal or not. 'That the world is unjust.'

'Oh, yes… Justice,' murmured the Dunmer. 'Well, justice is something that doesn't have a place in this tale. You were trying to kill me to prevent the Dark Brotherhood from rising again, which is your duty and not justice. On top of that, you were trying to avenge your son, and vengeance is as far away as you can get from justice. Nevertheless, we are at the end of it all.'

Maro looked past the Dark Brother, at the body of his soldier. Blood was flowing beneath it. Azrael noticed that the corpse was distracting the man and pushed the body in the water with his foot, causing a big splash and coloring the water with red blood.

'Look at me,' he said to the Commander. 'I've got an offer for you.'

'The offer of an assassin? Never. You still plan to murder my ruler… Damn it, our ruler, and I should accept your offer? Are you serious?'

'Well, you either accept it, or you die, so… You get it. The Emperor is not one of your biggest concerns right now. He can't be helped in any way.'

'You don't even know…'

'He's on the Katariah.'

Maro remained silent for a ling time.

'Listen, dearest enemy,' said Azrael, 'there's no way, no damned way to save your Emperor. Think as if he was already dead, because it makes no difference. Will you hear me out, now?'

'Say whatever you want, I'll not give up.'

'Fine. Like all offers, it's an exchange. I overheard that conversation you were having with your fellow… over there, kind of,' the Elf said, pointing at the red pool of blood that tinged the sea. 'So, even if your goal has not been achieved, I propose you keep to your decision. You'll resign, and you'll be able to go wherever you please and live the life you want.'

'And the catch?'

'You'll not tell about our meeting here to anyone.'

* * *

Azrael climbed the chain that held the anchor, and found himself into the lower parts of the ship. The amount of crates, barrels, sacks and chests confirmed him that he was in the deeper spaces of the hold, probably the main storeroom of the ship. Azrael smelt the scent of different foods and even some wines, mixed with the disgusting smell of rotten wood and saltiness. The Elf spied a small, round bottle on a barrel nearby, and moved towards it, but stopped suddenly upon turning the corner.

There was a man, probably a sailor and not a soldier, standing near the entrance. He hadn't heard anything, he just leaned against the wall near the door. Azrael slowly sneaked up to him, reached for him mouth and covered it as quickly as he could. The man kicked around, moaning, but the Elf pressed more intensely and dragged him back into the room. As soon as he was in a good spot he put his other hand on the back of the head and quickly rotated. The neck got snapped with a muffled crack.

The Dark Elf stepped back, recalling his original intent; he took the small bottle and untapped it, sniffing what it was.

 _Frost Mirriam… Damn, some kind of mountain flower._

He put a single drop of the mixture on his tongue.

 _Purple, purple mountain flower. Hmm… This could help me._

Thieves and assassin use a large variety of mixtures to make themselves less noticeable, and every single one has different effect depending on the ingredient used and the characteristics of the concoction, but the standard issue mixture that was sold was similar if not identical to the one he had found. Specifically, it both enhanced sight by warming the colors and made the sinews more flexible; it allowed the user to better spot dark areas to hide and move more swiftly and silently. Very useful when indoors.

 _Well, thank you I guess. You could not have left me a better present._

The Dunmer drank the full content of the bottle and left it on the barrel. He drew the Blade of Woe from his belt and raised the mask again on his face. He went out of the door, silently.

The next room was bigger, and had more doors that connected it to other parts of the ship. He tried to listen, but not a lot of noises could be heard. Only… The sound of a hammer clanging against an anvil, maybe someone working metal.

 _You can't possibly move a crafting station… That noise will guide me, should I get lost._

With light foot and aware senses he moved forward. The ship immediately took a more linear look: a small corridor began at the end of the room, and on its wall there were several closed doors. Azrael went ahead, flattening against the wall and looking if there were any enemies. He heard footsteps and some other noises, and so he assumed there were more people ahead. Just after the door there was a corner with two chair and a table, with one more sailor sitting.

A shame he was facing the wrong direction.

Azrael left the corpse lying face down on the table and continued thought the corridor.

* * *

If there's a possible comparison with what was about to go down, the thing that best resembles it is a nightmare. Bad dreams where shadows creep at every edge of the dreamer's field of view, grim whispers and sinister hisses echo in the empty air, and a freezing grip strangles the cursed one with the strength of his own mind. That's a good resemblance of what the men on the Katariah would have remembered of that night, had they survived. It was just past midnight when Azrael grabbed the anchor and entered the ship; at the crack of dawn there was not a living soul left in the vessel aside from the Dunmer himself.

'Something's not right,' said one of the agents to his fellow. 'Adrion stopped forging those spears and Gialicus stopped patrolling the corridor.'

'Yes, I noticed. We should warn the Lieutenant. I'll go, you check what happened to Adrion, fine?'

'Fine.'

In the brief time between the appearance of Azrael and the utter extermination that was unleashed in the ship, stories of specters and shadows circulated in the crew without ever halting. Those two soldiers would have been the first to tell them, as they went each to a place they would not have liked to visit.

The first one went to the main room, that had a balcony overhead that allowed to see the inside. There were usually two or more of his fellow agents that stood guard. They were still there, sitting on the chair, and completely still.

'Are you guys sleeping?' the soldier sighed. 'On duty? With the Dark Brotherhood dead you've taken your spaces, have you?'

However, a sad surprise awaited him. He approached, put a hand on one of his colleagues' shoulder and tried to wake him up. The soldier didn't wake, but two drops of blood fell down his mouth.

'What in the…'

The agent turned the corpse around and backed off immediately. Its throat had been slit, a straight red line that went from one side to the other. The eyes were half-opened, his mouth twisted as if someone had pressed it very hard and prevented the poor man from screaming.

'No, no, no… This can't be happening… Adrion! Adrion do you hear me?'

No one answered, neither Adrion nor his forge. The soldier ran at the edge on the balcony and looked down, stunned. Beside the forge there was no one, but on the wooden floor there was a splash of blood. No corpses in sight, but one of the chairs had been trampled and broken, and its shattered remains were also splattered with blood. Now that he thought of it, he had heard noises come from that direction, but never he would have imagined something like this. Two other soldiers were supposed to be down there, but the as no trace of them aside from those hints.

 _The ghosts of the Brotherhood have come… This is no living being._

Meanwhile, in the upper part of the ship, the other soldier was going to see Lieutenant Salvarus. He usually spent his time in the small library aboard the ship, reading and looking at his maps. The agent opened the door carefully, minding not to disturb him.

'Lieutenant? There's an emergency. Lieutenant?'

No answer.

'Lieutenant!'

The soldier bolted in, looked to the right and froze solid. Officer Salvarus lied prone on the floor, dead, with his armor tore and a thin stabwound right on the spine. The strange position of the legs made it clear that whoever killed him first knocked him down by tripping him and then executed the spinal stab while he was on the ground, possibly stunned by the fall.

'By the Gods… How?'

* * *

Only Vaermina could have unleashed more terrifying dreams on those men. The two soldier reunited after a bit, and they were so scared they took a bit before setting the alarm. However, only one of them managed to do that. The other was struck down by an arrow with black vanes while on the way. The agents that were still standing scattered through the ship in groups of two or three to search for the killer, but the number advantage didn't look like a difficulty to the mysterious assassin.

The group of three agents that had been tasked to check the way that went to the deck learned that the hard way. Azrael realized that he had created a perfect situation for fear and terror to spread, and that was the time to let that feed itself. It was time to disappear truly for a moment, but his only option was the deck, and there were those three agents checking the stairs.

The soldiers heard a noise that came from the corridor, and advanced towards it with their shields raised. Unfortunately for them, they had to pass beside a corner, and that was not good.

'Matmus, you check that bend and cover us. Hold formation.'

'Understood.'

As the passed by, Matmus did as asked, but he prepared to face the corner thinking to see nothing. When he turned and caught a glimpse on the outlines of the Elf, he panicked and stopped. Azrael grabbed him by the shield and pushed him against his two other comrades with great strength. The agents tumbled and fell to the ground, in disarray, but it was already too late to run. The Blade of Woe traced a low sweep, slashing the back of Matmus, then thrust downwards and impaled the second one to the ground. The third man managed to turn supine, only to see the shadow's dagger coming from the left and severing his head with surgical precision.

The tactics got switched over a bit as Azrael emerged on the main deck. He climbed the ladder, looking if anyone had noticed him, and crouching out of the trapdoor. He stood on the opposite side of the Lighthouse, so that his dark armor melted with the darkness of the night. However, the deck on that ship was huge, and he could not have walked all the way to his targets. Besides, every soldier there held a torch, and if even one had gone out they would have all become suspicious. Nevertheless, that thing was also an advantage: all the soldiers were really far from each other, and if he was to use a tactic that required some investigation to thwart… It would have been good.

The Elf grabbed his bow and nocked the first arrow, kept it horizontal as Aela had taught him, drew the string until his arm was strained and the nock of the arrow was beside his cheek, and then released. The muffled twang wasn't even heard, but the hiss was. The agents turned around, until the man holding the helm fell to the ground. His forehead had been pierced by the black arrow.

'Alarm! Alarm! There's a killer about!'

'Torches, get the torches!'

'Where did the arrow come from? Where in Oblivion did it come from?'

Azrael shook his head and aimed again, sneering terribly.

" _Mara's Mercy, the One Guy Ambush is so hard!" and so on…_

Another arrow downed an agent.

'Gods… No!'

A third shadow pierced the dark of night and sank into the breastplate of a soldier, crushing the ribs and piercing a lung. The cracked armor bent and grazed the flesh it was suppose to protect.

'Find that sneaky bastard! Find him and kill—'

The talking agent's life got harvested by yet another arrow. It was incredible how fast they came and how precise they were. A literal hail of them was raining on those poor sods.

Azrael was never found. What was found several day after the massacre were several corpses with arrow injuries and two without. One had its neck broken and the other a stabwound right beside the ear.

* * *

'Ghosts! Phantoms!'

'Shut up and keep looking!'

'They're coming for us!'

The mental state of the troops in the lower deck had done everything but improve. As if often does, fear had become paranoia and paranoia had become insanity. Trained soldiers were fleeing shadows like children. Expert agents were murmuring like raving lunatics. Every once in a while a new corpse turned up, and that only amplified that noxious mood. No one dared venture into the darkness, the sailors had already stopped two fires made by torches brought too close to the wooden wall and utter madness was the only ruling inside there. With the Lieutenant dead and the Captain found slain some time later, no one was in charge. The attempt of one of the agents to gain the upper hand ended up in a duel and a comrade slaughtering his fellow.

'He's coming… He's coming.'

'And we will be ready for him.'

'Death can't be stopped… Ghosts cannot be killed…'

'Stop moaning, Mara's Grace! He is a living being, he can be killed!'

'No he can't…'

The two men stopped. A shadow was standing between them. His hand swiftly gripped the hand of the frightened soldier and took his blade. He held the Blade of Woe in the other.

'I hope you don't mind…' said the figure.

He raised both blades, and slashed. In the throat of both men appeared a red line.

The remaining agents were there, but could do nothing other than look. The figure that had appeared was dark, intimidating. His black armor shined threateningly, his eyes blazed crimson. A black shroud of torment and despair followed his every step, death seemed to keep a hand on his shoulder and shadow seemed to embrace him softly. He could not be stopped, he was the very image of Destiny.

He was Fate's Left Hand.


	36. The Right Hand of Fate

Azrael pressed on the knob, breathed deeply and opened the door. A voice came from inside.

'And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could.'

The Dunmer narrowed his eyes, closed the door and the looked straight at that man, so bold that even in the face of his own doom managed to make an ironical comment on his subjects. That was very much like Azrael himself and not like his victims.

Emperor Titus Mede II sat in a chair behind a large desk. The whole room was adorned with banners with the sign of the Empire, and it was generally a lot more beautiful than the rest of the ship, with some furniture and goblets and bowls full of food. The windows were made of thin glass, which Azrael had almost never seen. The Elf also noticed the dining area, adjacent to the room he was standing in. The desk behind which the Emperor sat didn't really have a lot of things on it: a map of Skyrim, some books, a goblet half-full of wine and two candles. The man himself was quite old, maybe a decade or two older than Azrael. He was bald, and had a long grey beard that gave him a quite serious look. The robes he wore were quite fancy, adorned with white fur and decorated with signs of the Empire.

Azrael looked him in the eyes for quite a long time. They were awake but very, very tired.

'Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.'

To his own surprise, Azrael obeyed. He moved forward two steps and arrived right at the desk. He felt strangely, as if that man held more power over the situation than he did himself, even if he was the one wielding the blade. The natural balance that should have existed was completely altered. In an instinctive sign of respect, Azrael lowered his mask and his hood, letting his long black hair fall on his back. Finally feeling comfortable with himself and with his enemy, he spoke.

'Were you… Expecting me?'

'But of course,' the man replied, his lips curved as if to form a sad smile. 'You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, is it not? Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder... would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?'

For the first time after long years had passed Azrael had found a man worthy of his admiration.

 _Such a strange coincidence that the only Human I know that seems to deserve my respect is the one I have to kill. Or maybe… Maybe he is right. Maybe we do have a date with Destiny, and this was no coincidence. I don't know…_

'I'm listening.'

'I thank you for your courtesy,' answered the Emperor, ironic but sincere at the same time. 'You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain... ambition. So I ask of you a favor. An old man's dying wish. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion.'

 _Very true indeed…_

'This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?'

Titus Mede observed his killer intensely, looking as his eyes narrowed even more and his irises brightened up, until they seem to sparkle bright red. He really admired the glacial calm of his executioner and thought that it would have been a good death to die at the hand of that Elf.

'I'll… consider your request,' finally replied the Dunmer.

'Thank you,' answered the Emperor in turn, standing from his chair. 'Now, on to the business at hand…'

'Not so fast, old man.'

Titus Mede raised his gaze, meeting the flaming eyes of the assassin. For the first time in that conversation, he felt a strange sting of fear down his throat.

'Well? I won't fight you, so we may as well get this over with.'

'No, not yet,' replied the Dunmer. 'You said you sense a certain ambition in me. That's true. Very true even. However, there is one thing that is a big part of that: knowledge. I crave knowledge more than anything else. You can give me some of that, and I won't let you die before you do.'

'What do you want to do then?'

'To talk.'

The Emperor smiled weakly, and sat down again on his chair. Azrael found himself sighing with relief when he did. He feared that that opportunity would have escaped his grasp. Titus Mede pointed at a chair near the Elf, and explained his to bring it in front of him with gestures alone. As the Dunmer seated, he gabbed another goblet from behind him and poured some wine. That was so strange and yet so… natural. On one side Titus Mede, garbed in expensive and clean clothes. On the other Azrael, wearing the cuirass of the Brotherhood, stained with blood.

'I suppose no one will disturb us?' the Emperor asked.

'No. The dead don't usually interrupt conversations.'

'If only I had guardians with half your skills I would not be here.'

'Do you know why you can't afford them?'

'Because the training they would need to go through to achieve similar abilities is not something a civilized country can offer. We can't kill parents, we can't storm houses, and we can't force children to kill just ten winters after their birth.'

'And you can't separate a father from his daughter…'

Titus Mede bent his head, with interest in his gaze: 'That's your story?'

'It is.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Thanks, I imagine. I have to admit, I was fairly surprised that you actually knew the answer to that question.'

'I'm old… Your name?'

'Azrael.'

'Good. As I was saying, I'm old, Azrael, very old. Not chronologically speaking, but in the soul. I've done many things in my life, and now I'm tired. I've ruled a crumbling Empire for my entire lifespan, fought Elves using a cursed blade and survived the worst a man can bear. I've seen my share, and now I've gone through more than I ever wanted to. After so much time, I've come to my conclusion. There's no honor in this world, no glory and righteousness, and the endless wars that are fought over and over to determine who's right don't determine who's right at all, but only who survives. That's who I am.'

'A cynical bastard. I like that.'

'Is that the term you assassins use to describe people like us?'

'Yes, almost.'

'I like it. To the nobles I'm just an authoritarian and intransigent ruler.'

'And what does it mean to be an authoritarian and intransigent ruler?'

'For instance that you have always to bring a whole pack of junk along. Yes, it's just that. Junk.'

'What do you mean, exactly?'

'Look there. That's my bedchamber aboard this vessel. It's filled with riches, things I do not need, but that I am… encouraged to bring along. By the way, you might pick what you want from there once I'm dealt with. I don't care if you bring your fellow killers a little extra.'

'Do you really don't mind?'

'Why should I? I'll be dead. Gold and jewels won't bring me back, and even if they could I'd refuse. I'm tired of treasures, glory, great feats and great acts. I seek two things: knowledge and a decent death for an old man that has left a modest handprint of this history on the world.'

'Knowledge…' whispered Azrael, casting his gaze at the books on the desk. 'I see you go for light reading, too. _Brothers of Darkness_ … The Brotherhood interests you, I see.'

'I've tried to follow its trail across the centuries, because I trust no one as of late. My spies back in the Imperial City swore my life was not in danger, and yet a group of nobles managed to arrange my assassination. Here Commander Maro assured me that he dispatched the Brotherhood for good, and not two days later the best among them walks in my very quarters.'

'It's very hard to erase the darkness. Almost impossible. I felt that on my own skin, feeling the dark within me.'

'People like us are drawn to utter darkness and utter light with the same strength that draws a moth near the fire.'

'What did you mean when saying "like us"?'

'Just speculating. I've looked at you intently since you entered, and I've come to a conclusion: you and I are the two sides of one coin. The thing I'm trying to understand is what coin that is.'

'You really think that?'

'Yes, I do. One hint pointed me to it: we both feel a great admiration for one another. What do respect of me, Azrael?'

'Your tranquillity, your control and your awareness, but… These are thing I have too. Things that are yours and only yours are wisdom and, among all, charisma and authority. That's… kind of hard to explain, so give me a moment. Wherever you walk, an aura of power follows you. Even I, proud and independent as I am, immediately felt a deep respect for you. It's just about how you appear, the very trace you leave in the air. Your calm irradiates hope, inspires respect. That is what stunned me. And you?'

'Your glacial calm, your ability to comprehend, and your sincerity. But these are things I too have acquired in the years. What you have and I have not is something very close to what you said of me. An aura, a shroud that surrounds you. But it's not like mine. Yours is the deepest core of authority, it's its quintessence. Calling it "fear" would be minimalistic. It's despair at its purest and ancestral meaning.'

'But did you feel fear?'

'I did, but I managed to not show it. That is the point. We got influenced by one another, but we managed to stay cold. We are one thing, in a way, and we can resist the other side of ourselves.'

'A date with Destiny you said… And still. I think something did not go according to Fate.'

'Yes, it didn't. Do you want to know why? Because we are striving to understand. Rulers and murderers always come to their meeting, but they don't ask themselves why. We are. We are trying to understand, we are trying to break free of the chains of Fate and live this as our own tale. Just our own.'

'This is all quite complicated.'

'It is, but we have clues. We are just another ruler and another killer.'

'Are we? Are we just part of another meaningless farce that has already been played over and over again?'

'No… We are not, you're right. We are… We are the purest essence that can exist of our roles. The Emperor and the Assassin. We are the two and only.'

'So… You the Emperor and I the Assassin are the two sides of the same coin. But we are back to the start. Which coin is it?'

'We are born to dominate. One with authority, the other with terror. The first rules by the laws of life, the other dictates by the laws of death. The first one builds and the other destroys. The first irradiates hope and the other one despair… A unique force, that complements itself, in and endless cycle of creation, life and obliteration.'

'Yes… Something that can unite all things, all opposites, under a single identity. Fire and ice, life and death, good and evil, hope and despair.'

'It's not a god, although it does look like one.'

'Well, it almost is.'

'Meaning?'

'It's Fate.'

The Emperor lied on the backrest, and sipped a bit of wine. He was still smirking weakly.

'Fate… Interesting. Would you mind to clarify?'

'Well… Let's see. Maybe I've got an idea. Imagine if Fate was a tall and vigorous humanoid, someone stronger than all the Gods and the Daedric Princes combined, even stronger than the Void. His supreme power is not his sheer strength, but rather his knowledge. He is our completion, because we crave knowledge while He knows all there is to know.'

'So… We are a part of it.'

'Bullseye.'

'Which part? We should be symmetrical parts, shouldn't we?'

'Exactly. We are His hands. Fate, a being of never-ending strength and wisdom, acts using both hands. His right one it the righteous one, the one that sows, builds, unites and tempers. His Right Hand is the thing that gives the world a meaning on its own, the one that creates civilization and all that comes with it. From its Right Hand a constant shine spreads, mysterious and welcome to those who see it. They don't understand it, but they feel bound to it by the hope it gives out. They serve the Right Hand of Fate because it acts for a greater good that they strive to see.'

'Should this be a representation of me?'

'Yes. The Right, Callous Hand of Fate. The one that sows.'

'And you?'

'When Fate sees that the world is about to become something else than it should be, he maintains the order using his Left Hand. His left is the tainted one. This one harvests, annihilates, unleashed chaos and dread. There seems to be no meaning to this, for it is the coming of the Void, the return to the chaos from which the Right Hand modeled the world. The Left Hand wreaks havoc and brings mayhem, it's the manifestation of the most dreadful nightmare into reality. From it, a similar influence spreads. It's not a shine, but the exact opposite. It's Shadow. The Shadow is so dark that absorbs the light, even the bright of the Right Hand. This is not pleasantly mysterious, but enigmatic in a grim and sinister way. People, as they previously gathered under the banner of the Right Hand, now flee in disarray feeling pure despair when they sense the Left coming to harvest what has been sowed.'

'So… The Left one.'

'The Left, Bloodied Hand of Fate. The one that reaps.'

Titus Mede II sipped again from the goblet, and invited Azrael to do the same. The Elf drank all the half-glass in one draught, and licked his lips afterwards. The Emperor reached the bottom of the goblet moments later, and looked at the Assassin with a calm gaze. The Dunmer couldn't tell if the man was satisfied or rather perplexed, but his next words erased his doubts.

'Today,' he said, 'I die a content man.'

'Do you really want to die?'

'I do. You're not about to die, even of old age, so you don't feel the same way. But I can tell you this: my life is over. I've done my part, and I'm perfectly pacified. We broke free of the chains of Destiny by understanding that we are the thing that allows it to act. Now we just let it go its way, for its wisdom is never-ending. The Right Hand has sowed, and now the Left comes for the harvest. You, Assassin. You, Azrael. If you do that and keep that in mind, we won't have played a part, but we will have lived our lives free from the shackles of Fate.'

'But… With you dying, what is the point of our discovery?'

'I'm surprised you don't understand that. Azrael, think. I'll die, but you'll live. You will keep the memory of me inside of you. And that will be enough. More than enough. I die a happy man, and you'll live as a wise Assassin. Today the tides shift. The Creator dies and the Ender rises. Perhaps this is a stepping stone for you. Maybe there's something else left for you to destroy.'

Titus Mede stood up. Azrael imitated him, and followed him as he went closer to the window. He looked East, where the first rays of the Sun were just poking out of the horizon.

'This is it,' said the Emperor. 'One last thing, Azrael. Another favor. Make this… recognizable. I want a mark that you could recognize as your own.'

'As you will.'

He heard the sound of a blade, and then saw the dark metal shining just under his chin. He smiled.

'Just stay still,' the Assassin said, putting a hand on his forehead and pulling his head further back. 'It might sting.'


	37. Epilogue: The Birth of an Ender

_Night Mother… Do you hear me?_

 _I do, my child. Oh, I sense doubt in you. I sense wonder. Speak, Listener. What is the answer that you seek?_

 _I was asking myself why I only hear your voice. In both meanings._

 _Why should others hear me? The Listener is the only medium through which Sithis can give orders to his chosen. And that goes for the other way around. Why should you hear Sithis? I, like you, am the only medium required._

 _But why can't He just skip those mediums?_

 _It's in the nature of everything. It's in the nature of the Void. The Dread Father does not commune with this plane where my children walk. In due time, you will realize one thing: the wisdom of Sithis is infinite. If he does not speak to you, then it's because you are not supposed to. You, child, are strong enough to sustain by yourself. Sithis knows you don't need him to accomplish what he himself ordered you to do._

 _That means I am strong enough for him?_

 _Yes, child. You are strong enough. You are invincible._

* * *

There's no mission in life, but we all have out destiny.

There are some that don't believe in it. For those people, there are other names that can be used. Destiny is our future, it is the things that are yet to happen, our greatest aspiration and our true calling. Destiny is the inscription carved with fire into our souls, it's the thing that dictates our behavior and our vision. For all of us, destiny is what we strive to be, what we hope to become, because it is the full completion of our truest potential.

Then what is our completion? Well, obviously it depends. It depends on the person one is, of which race among the ones on Nirn he or she belongs, on the things one learns and on what culture they grow in. A lot of things influence that. What matters is that everyone has a point of growth at which one feels completely satisfied with self. From there one manages to perpetually grow, determined to achieve the knowledge of all things, which at that point is the only thing that differs between what one has become and one's own Fate.

And where is the meaning of all this? Destiny is already written, so what is the meaning of it all? Is there none? There has to be none. No, not necessarily. For two reasons: firstly, what happens around an individual is not written anywhere. What happens is just the interaction of a multitude of single individuals, and even if those people have their own destiny what will occur between them is a mystery until it happens. Secondly, no one knows his or her own destiny. One has to seek it, either inside themselves or in the world around them. There are some who discover their it when they are old, when they already have seen the major part of their lifetime. Some never learn it. They die not knowing which was the thing that would have made them feel fulfilled.

And Nirn, the whole universe, has a destiny of its own. That one is Fate. That Fate the Emperor and the Assassin had thought and imagined as a humanoid.

But what is the deal with Azrael? What was the point of all this philosophy? It's very simple and yet incredibly difficult, but thanks to all of that I think I can summarize: he had understood his destiny, and the part he had in Fate.

 _The Assassin… That's what Titus called me. The Left, Bloodied Hand of Fate._ _That means so much, and ever so little. The annihilator, that's who I am. It's some people's job to create, and other people's job to destroy. That's the order scripted in nature, Fate, future, however you want to call it._

The Right, Callous Hand sows, and the Left, Bloodied one reaps. That's so much more than a fragile equilibrium, it's true order. Nothing can shatter it, nothing can stop it. The only thing you can do is comprehend it, transcend it, break free of the chains of your future and try to grasp Fate itself.

 _Sithis is the Void. Well, where is the strange thing? Is there something strange, even? I am drawn to chaos, to Sithis' aspect on this plane, and because Sithis is the Left Side of Fate. The one in the shadow, the one you don't see and you're not supposed to see. The only thing you can see of it, is it's Hand. The Bloodied Hand. Fate is two things: Full and Null, All and Void. I am the Hand of the Void. Maybe that's why I am the Listener. I am the Hand of Sithis._

The order is just that, it can't be eradicated. The creator and the destroyer have to complement each other. In a way, all that is created only exists to be ravaged. The only meaning of life is obliteration. But after destruction, something remains. Maybe you'll remember, and Azrael did too, that in times past he hoped to be the light that brought warmth and comfort to others. Now, despite of all, he had become the polar opposite. A never-ending darkness that extinguishes light wherever he found it. In the utter absence of light, the people must find and would find the courage to ignite their own lights. The only thing that will remain is memory. That is the thing that survives the destruction, endures even the flight of time. Memory.

The Left Hand of Fate assures that the world progresses and goes on. The Bloodied Hand is always two things: It's medicine and poison, relief and pain, the Purifier and the Defiler. Fate's Left is beyond death, it's something so powerful is can even unleash it and control it. Death guides him and is his to control, Despair follows him as his own shade, and Shadow shrouds him, hiding him from the rest of the world.

The Left, Bloodied Hand of Fate is the Ender. It is invincible. Azrael was invincible. The eighth and final step to become the Assassin had been made.

Azrael sat on a rock, thinking, while looking at the twilight. The Sun was disappearing slowly, and as it finally did he smiled and sighed deeply.

 _This is my destiny. I'll follow it wherever he guides me. Dread will be my herald, death my gift, and chaos the only thing left behind me. The world will tremble, all that exist will shatter and fade before my might._

That day an Ender had been given birth. The Assassin had risen.

Azrael couldn't tell if his search for meaning had led him to the truth of some other idol, another illusion. Was that all an empty creation? Was it all a lie? He couldn't tell. For the time being, he relished in those thoughts.

* * *

A/N: This is the end of _The Birth of an Ender_ _._ Feel free to leave a Favorite if you liked it. Azrael's tale continues in _The Assassin II: Thief of Lives._


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